


Mayday, My Darling

by sinestrated



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Established Relationship, Guilt, Jim picks up the pieces, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vulcans are not infallible, and against his better judgment, Spock develops a deadly drug addiction. The fallout burns everyone, Jim most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mayday, My Darling

**Author's Note:**

> This story was fully a year in the making. I went through binges with it—I’d write a couple thousand words, then drop it because it hurt too much, then pick it up again a couple months later. It turned into my own personal writing addiction, where I relapsed again and again and I loved and hated it at the same time. Now, finally, I’m clean.
> 
> Can’t say the same for Spock though.

Lospin II is not technically a pleasure planet, but Spock thinks it a close approximation. Certainly its capital city fits the definition, a sprawling metropolis filled with museums and shops, and abundant with establishments serving all sorts of intoxicating beverages.

He left Jim and the others at just such an establishment, passing drinks and stories around the table, their raucous laughter only adding to the cacophony of the bar. Spock stayed as long as was polite, but excused himself as soon as he could. He has been trying to participate more in social outings with the rest of the crew, mostly for Jim’s benefit, but Vulcans have always been uncomfortable with crowds and noise, and there was only so much of the grating raised voices and open displays of emotion his shields could take.

Jim, at least, understood, if the way he smiled and squeezed Spock’s hand briefly is any indication. Spock lets the memory warm him as he makes his way through the cool night back toward their hotel.

This is the first time the _Enterprise_ has been allowed shore leave in almost a year. It is only to be expected; as the Federation’s flagship, she receives the most frequent, difficult assignments. Sometimes Spock wonders how Jim juggles it all: captaining the most conspicuous ship in the ‘Fleet with the youngest crew on record, going on highly-publicized mission after mission that sometimes takes them from one end of the galaxy to the other in less than a week. Spock is sure an average human being would have lost control of his faculties by now—but then, he reminds himself with an inward smile, Jim is anything but average.

Still, he is grateful they have been granted this period of rest. Their last mission was especially stressful—those that result in crewmember deaths always are—and between everything they each had to do as Captain and First Officer of the _Enterprise_ , they’d barely had time for more than a few quick kisses and fleeting caresses in the past two weeks.

Spock is looking forward to some quality time with his lover. It is another reason he left the bar early: he intends to catch up on work sooner rather than later, as Jim is always more…enthusiastic after a night out and Spock does not anticipate either of them getting much sleep.

“Hey.”

The voice breaks into his thoughts like a hammer shattering glass. Spock pauses and turns, peering into the narrow alleyway to his right. He can just barely make out a lumpy humanoid shape, attached to the grimy wall like a tumor.

“Yes?”

The shape shuffles forward. Light falls across a human face, younger than Jim’s and unevenly shaven. The man wears an overcoat easily two sizes too large, and there are gaps in his smile. A criminal, then. Spock narrows his eyes.

“Fellas call me Joker,” the man says. He teeters at the edge of the alley as if unwilling to leave its dark sanctuary. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, like, bro. Ya want something?”

Spock blinks. Why would he desire anything from this man? “Clarify.”

Something dawns on Joker’s face as his eyes flick up to Spock’s ears. “Dude, you’re like, _Vulcan_ and shit? Oh, man, have I got the shit for you.”

He reaches into his pocket, and Spock shifts on instinct into a minor defensive stance. However, what he brings out is not a weapon but some sort of package: a thin metal case, roughly the size of a cigarette pack, and when he presses a button on the side an inner panel slides out. In the dim light, Spock makes out a set of round, button-like patches, almost pure white, twenty in all.

Joker keeps talking. “So like, this is the _good_ shit, bro, ya see what I’m sayin’? New to the market, fellas call it Cambrin. _Guaranteed_ to work for Vulcans, man. Eighty percent pure, ya see what I’m sayin’?”

And just like that, it clicks. Spock frowns. “I have no interest in—”

“Oh, c’mon, bro, ya gotta try it!” Joker says, extending the case. “It’s like nothin’ ya ever _felt_ , man. C’mon, c’mon, Cam is the _shit_ , bro.”

Spock straightens his spine. “As a Starfleet officer, it is against regulations for me to procure illicit substances for personal use.”

His words are as good as a stun shot from a phaser. Joker’s eyes go comically wide and he drops the case with a clatter. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit, you’re _Starfleet?_ Shit!”

“Yes,” Spock answers, “and as it appears you are engaged in the trade of an illegal mind-altering substance without a proper Federation license, it is my duty to contact the local authorities and detain you until they arrive.”

He steps forward, but Joker throws his hands up. “Wait! Just wait a second, man!” He ducks down, snatches the case up from the floor, and shoves it at Spock. “Look, bro, you can have it, okay? No shit, for free! Just please don’t arrest me. C’mon, man, be a brother, will ya?”

Spock tilts his head. “I have no use for your wares.”

“Sure ya do!” Joker cries, shoving the case at him again so that the metal bumps against Spock’s chest. “C’mon, man, it’s like, the _best_ shit for Vulcans! Swear on my mama’s grave! Please? Please, man, c’mon, I’m just doin’ business here…”

He looks so pathetic, standing there blubbering in the dim streetlight, and Spock sighs to himself. Logically he knows he should still report the man, but given Lospin II’s metropolitan setting and high crime rates, Joker is likely to be just one dealer among hundreds. Perhaps simply scaring him tonight is enough. Besides, an arrest like this would mean even more paperwork to add to Jim’s already overwhelming workload, and Spock does not wish to impose any more stress on his lover.

This particular substance—Cambrin, Joker called it—may also merit some scientific investigation. If it is truly “new to the market” as the dealer claims, then perhaps a thorough chemical analysis of its contents will yield something of benefit either to himself or to Dr. McCoy. And Joker is offering it free of charge.

The decision is logical.

“Very well,” Spock says, and accepts the case.

Joker’s shoulders slump in relief. “Oh god, thanks, man, you are the _shit_ , bro, ya have no idea. Seriously, man. Look, ya want my comm number or somethin’? In case ya want more? I can set you up, bro, seriously, all ya need to do is ask, ya see what I’m sayin’?”

It is on the tip of Spock’s tongue to refuse, but then he realizes the potential benefits of having a way to trace this man in the future. At the very least, if he ever changes his mind he will be able to give the information to the authorities.

“Very well.”

Joker inputs the information into his padd and escapes after that, ducking back into the alleyway from whence he came. Spock puts the case in his pocket, shaking his head as he resumes the walk back to the hotel. Jim will no doubt find this story amusing.

Except he doesn’t end up telling him. In fact, Spock forgets completely about the compact metal case for the remainder of shore leave, losing himself in Jim instead, in being able to have his lover here and close after more than two weeks of distance. He loses himself in Jim’s smile, his laughing blue eyes, the slick slide of his body against Spock’s own in the early hours of the morning, and thoughts of Joker and Cam never cross his mind for the next five days as they revel in something that has become sacred to both of them.

The day the _Enterprise_ departs from Lospin II, Spock finds the case at the bottom of his bag while unpacking in their quarters. Jim is on the bridge conversing with Command about their next assignment, and Spock just stands there for a moment, looking down at the metal box in his hand. He presses the button on the side and watches the panel slide out, tiny Cambrin patches sitting in their rows like neatly planted flowers.

It is not logical to try a dose on himself. Despite Joker’s claims, few substances affect Vulcans, and it is unlikely he will be able to ascertain the chemical composition through its direct application.

And yet…there are twenty doses in the pack. More than enough for analysis in the lab. And it would be helpful to know exactly what, if any, effects the Cambrin has on humanoid physiology, if only so that he may add it to the lab report.

Besides, Jim is always telling him to _loosen up, Spock, you gotta live a little._ While Spock doubts this is what his lover meant, he nevertheless feels Jim will understand—and probably find the whole thing entertaining—when Spock informs him of the experiment later.

The tiny patch he peels off the pack reminds him of the slow-release nicotine chips Jim once said he’d tried during his first year at the Academy. They are about the same size, at any rate, roughly a centimeter in diameter, and when Spock presses the patch to his forearm, the cream white is almost indistinguishable from his own alabaster skin.

He watches as the patch, reacting to body heat, dissolves almost instantly. A moment passes. Then two. Spock hums: ineffective, then. That is only to be expected; after all, Vulcan physiology does not allow for—

The rush hits him like a physical blow, and he staggers. What is—What can this—and then the feeling, and the raw _power_. Vaguely he hears the dull clatter of the case hitting the floor, but he cannot focus on it, there is too much else, there is—

He feels—

He _feels_. Excitement, joy, pride—his mind, his very _blood_ is alive with it, and there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ he is incapable of. The week-long analysis of the Parygian samples? He will complete that today. And the requisition reports after that, he will finish them immediately, and then the shielding experiment in Lab 4, and the mission log for Beta-Ranjin after that. He cannot comprehend how he once thought his schedule full—it is nothing, not with this power because now he can do anything, _everything_.

And then his _senses_. He sees, smells, and hears sharp and clear as never before—the roar of the _Enterprise_ ’s engines beneath his feet, the conversation of the two ensigns down the hall, the fog of musk and sex that hangs in the air from when he and Jim—

Oh god, Spock can _smell_ him. He is everywhere: soaked into the floor, wafting from the bedsheets, the desk, the bookshelf—earthy and bright, a searing beach sun, Jim and Jim and _Jim_. Each breath brings him another wave of scent, heady and strong, every cell in his body all of a sudden alight with it and he can’t—he _needs—_

The _swish_ of the door sliding open. “Hey Spock, did I leave my padd he— _oof!_ ”

The real thing is even better than the remnants. Spock buries his face in Jim’s neck and inhales, relishing his lover’s scent as it sends sparks crackling down his spine. He can hear it too, Jim’s heartbeat, the way it has increased in frequency from surprise, and every individual hair on Jim’s arm, and the singing flow of Jim’s blood through his veins.

Spock feels _everything_ —Jim is a sea of sensation he has fallen into, and he cants his hips up without thinking, drinking in Jim’s slightly strangled gasp. “Dude, what’s wrong wi— _mmph._ ”

And dear god, Jim tastes even better than he smells. How has Spock not noticed this before? He must spend all his time kissing Jim from now on—and he _will_ , he can do anything—because Jim tastes like the mints he sometimes likes to pop during shift and the cigarette he no doubt snuck in the turbolift on his way to the bridge, but underneath that is another, headier taste that is nothing but _Jim_ and Spock chases it with his tongue, drinks in his lover like the finest of wines.

It is exactly 19.25574 seconds before they pull apart, and Jim looks flushed and debauched and _beautiful_ as he shoves Spock toward the bed, reaching down to pull his shirt up and off in one smooth motion, revealing miles of touchable golden skin—

“Okay, Jesus, I don’t know what the fuck’s gotten into you but I told everybody I’d be back in five minutes so you’d better make this quick—”

Spock does it in three. 3.30061, to be precise.

Yet, even as Jim shudders and pants beneath him in post-orgasmic bliss, nothing is _done_. That is unacceptable. Spock is capable of anything now, and to stay here with Jim when he could be working at peak—optimum— _supraperfect,_ Spock decides, that will be the word—efficiency is a travesty, a crime. The crew would never forgive him if he did not use this newfound power. It is his duty as First Officer.

Spock dresses, then snatches the case from the floor—it feels searing cold and diamond-hard, metal tingling against his skin—and slides it into his pocket. As he heads for the door, Jim’s voice drifts to him, thick with both confusion and afterglow. “Wha…where are you going?”

“I have duties to attend to, Captain.” Even his _voice_ sounds different, echoing all-encompassing in his head like the words of a god. And perhaps that is what he is, a god among mortals, because they are limited by sleep and fuel and their own feeble bodies, while Spock thinks—no, he _knows_ —that he is not.

“So you’re just gonna…well, okay,” Jim says, and Spock detects a note of hurt in his voice but he packs it into a side box to be examined later. Jim will understand, once he receives the report summarizing all Spock has accomplished today. Jim will understand, and he will be proud.

For the next six hours, Spock cannot believe he used to work so slowly. Numbers and calculations fly through his head like a supercomputer in his brain: titrate 15.89921 milligrams of chrypormine, energy output of the endomecidite shield is 4.10084 Joules, the Groman’s curve postulated in Dr. Majudo’s paper is off by 0.00355 degrees. Spock is operating at 167.88409% efficiency. Supraperfect.

Exactly 21.33994 minutes later, his neck begins to ache. 3.626 minutes later, the world softens: no more scrape of shoes down the hall, no more aromatic echoes from the furthest corners of the ship. Spock’s fingers feel numb, and the padd drops onto the table with a clatter. He stares down at it. The clock in the corner reads 0309.

Something twinges in his head, a tiny yet persistent hammer-beat along the inside of his skull. Spock winces, pressing his fingers to his temple, and squints blearily at the lab office around him. One of his two consoles is spitting out continuous calculations, a myriad of scrolling numbers and mathematical equations that Spock finds he no longer understands. The other plots a five-dimensional simulation curve, but when Spock tries to remember what it is for his mind comes up with nothing but grey fuzz.

Dear god, he is so _tired_.

His journey back to the quarters he shares with Jim is a vague blur of grayscale colors, too-bright lights, and greetings from passing night-shift crewmembers Spock cannot even find the strength to acknowledge. Jim is already fast asleep, one of his antique hardcovers lying half-open on the floor next to the bed; he must have been waiting for Spock. Spock spares a quick, tired moment of gratitude before sliding under the covers and ordering the lights off. He is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

 

“…ock?”

He is shaking. Or rather, something is shaking him, a gentle but firm back-and-forth rocking of his shoulder. Nausea rises in the back of his throat and Spock grunts, burrowing further into the pillow while simultaneously trying to push away the unwelcome contact.

Warm fingers wrap around his wrist, accompanied by a trickle of concern swathed in a layer of soothing heat, almost like a warm blanket: the undeniable telepathic flavor of Jim. “Spock, come on. Shift starts in fifteen minutes; you need to wake up.”

He growls and bats at the hand. Jim is talking too much. Spock can’t believe he once thought his lover’s voice pleasant and soothing; the faintly whiny tone grates on his sensitive eardrums like a Sus’vii battle ballad.

“Spock.” Jim reaches out to shake him again and Spock heaves away from the contact, shoving the blanket aside and throwing his legs over the side of the bed. His body feels interminably heavy, like lead weights have been strapped to his wrists and ankles. His throat scratches sandpaper-rough with every swallow. His head throbs.

And why in Surak’s name is it so _bright?_

Jim chuckles in a confused way, and Spock realizes with a start he said that out loud. “Dude, the lights’re at twenty percent, as usual.” He tilts his head. “Are you feeling okay? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re hungover.”

He probably means it in a teasing way, but for some reason anger flares in Spock’s gut. “Need I remind you, Captain, that alcohol has no effect on Vulcans?” And why would Jim accuse him of imbibing in the first place? He thought they had reached a point of being able to trust each other.

Jim just shrugs. “Whatever you say, Spock. Lights to five percent.”

And, _finally_ , the blinding white searing into his eyeballs fades somewhat. Spock sighs in the sudden, soothing darkness. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” Jim straightens his uniform shirt. “But seriously, you’d better get dressed. It won’t do morale any good for _both_ the ship’s COs to show up late for alpha.”

Spock glances at him; Jim is already dressed, freshly showered with his hair neatly combed. He has obviously been awake a while. The irritation flares up again, a venomous alien suddenly inhabiting his body. “Why did you not wake me sooner?”

“Really?” Jim shakes his head. “Spock, you’re a walking alarm clock. I thought you just switched your shifts around today and then didn’t tell me. You did get home awfully late last night.”

And the way the last word curls up into a question? Spock doesn’t want to hear it, so, as usual, he reverts to old habits. “My ‘home,’ as you say, is onboard the _Enterprise_ itself. Therefore, since I did not actually leave the ship, it is illogical to say I ‘came home’ at all.”

He sees the mistake as soon as the last word leaves his mouth. Jim’s expression shutters and he looks away. “Sorry for the confusion,” he murmurs. “I’ll leave you to get ready.” And, without another word, he turns and walks out the door.

Spock is left alone in the room with a painful mix of guilt and residual anger. Jim always seems to bring out the worst in him; he is always testing Spock’s boundaries and pushing his buttons. If only Jim didn’t insist on prying so much, then Spock could truly welcome him into his world. He wants Jim there, of course; he just doesn’t understand why the younger man has to be so brash, so audacious, so… _human_ about it.

On his way to the bathroom, something cold and unyielding presses against him from his back pocket. Spock removes the thin metal box and stares at it for a few moments, steel edges winking in the dim light. He has only vague, flashpoint memories of the previous night, but he does remember the euphoria, the confidence, the pure, raw _power._

He tucks the Cambrin into the bottom drawer of his desk and hurries into the shower.

 

Spock sacrifices morning meditation but still makes it to the bridge six minutes late. Jim glances at him from the captain’s chair but doesn’t say a word. The rest of the bridge crew, after exchanging a few strange looks, follows his example.

The shift is uneventful, and as the hours tick by Spock finds his gaze drifting to Jim more and more. The morning seems so long ago now, his anger distant and abstract like footprints fading into ocean sand. Why did he snap at Jim in the first place? His lover was only acting as he always does.

Five minutes until shift change, and he has never felt so guilty as he watches Jim confer quietly with his beta shift relief. It must have been the Cambrin; Spock can think of no other reason for the way he acted. He will dispose of the drug tonight.

Lieutenant Etheridge ends the conversation with a nod and a sharp “Aye, sir.” As he steps forward toward the captain’s chair, Jim straightens the hem of his shirt, takes a deep breath, and ambles over to the Science station.

“So,” he says, and Spock’s heart twists in his side at the false cheer in his voice. “Dinner? Or do you have other work to do?”

Spock rises from his seat and tries to school his features over the wave of relief. This is why he loves Jim so: how strongly he leads, how passionately he loves, and how easily he forgives. “I am amenable to the former.”

He reaches out, deliberate, and smoothes his fingers over the collar of Jim’s shirt. To anyone else, it might have looked like he was just brushing off lint, but Jim’s sudden bright smile shows he got the message loud and clear.

They don’t talk on the way back to their quarters, but as soon as the door closes behind them, Spock steps forward. “Jim, about this morning—”

He is interrupted by Jim’s lips on his own, and Spock melts into the kiss without thought. When they finally pull apart a few moments later, Jim just smiles. “We all have bad days every once in a while,” he says, caressing Spock’s fingers. “You were long overdue, really.”

Spock shakes his head and squeezes his lover’s hand. “Still, that does not excuse what I said. You will always be my home, Jim.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Jim answers with a wink. “Seriously, though, it’s fine. Our relationship is never gonna be perfect, and to be honest, if it were I’d be climbing the fucking walls. So don’t worry about it, Spock. Really.”

He darts in for another kiss before stepping toward the replicator. “So. Noodles?”

Spock smiles and follows him.

 

Three days pass without incident. Spock wakes every morning and remembers his vow to dispose of the Cambrin, but somehow circumstances keep distracting him from the task. But it is of little consequence. Jim doesn’t know about it, and Spock has no intention of taking another dose.

Then Xarugin happens.

The virus came out of nowhere, decimating a quarter of the planet’s population in less than a month. Some think it a chance mutation of a widespread pesticide; others, a deliberate attack carried out by domestic terrorists. The Federation doesn’t particularly care _how_ the epidemic came about, so long as it’s contained.

From the moment the _Enterprise_ settles into stationary orbit around the troubled planet, Dr. McCoy and his staff work around the clock. It seems a rare stroke of luck when Ensign Cole’s biohazard suit develops a leak and he survives quarantine without so much as a runny nose. Humans are immune, it seems, so whole teams start going down, collecting samples, distributing supplies, and tending to the sick.

Except it turns out they’re not immune—they’re just carriers. And they only discover that when Lieutenant Grii’nn starts to show symptoms, followed closely by Warrant Officer Chata-prrr. Neither of them have even left the ship.

Thirty-six hours later, half the non-human crew are sick, with the other half in varying stages of quarantine. Spock’s human genes work in his favor for once, but they are nearing the end of their collective rope. Sickbay is overcrowded, understaffed, and supplies are running out. When Grii’nn and Chata-prrr both die a day later, seizing and choking on their own blood and vomit, Spock knows they need a solution fast, before all hope is lost.

That is how he finds himself standing at his desk that night, staring down at the box in his hand.

Jim has been down on Xarugin for the past three days, helping to coordinate a planetwide containment effort. Spock saw him only briefly during their vidcomm last night, but he saw the exhaustion in his lover’s features, the tightness around his eyes. Jim is running on fumes; they all are, and something must be done. Looking down at the tiny white patch pinched between his fingers, Spock takes a deep breath. He does this out of necessity, not desire. He has it under control.

This time the rush comes faster; the Cam has barely dissolved into his skin when all his nerves suddenly blaze up in sensation and the whole world sharpens into clear, absolute relief. He stumbles back a step, reeling with the depth of it. The universe itself unfolds before him, all its secrets unraveling like a blossoming flower, his for the claiming. All he has to do is reach forward and _take._

Supraperfect. He heads for the labs.

In 2.22082 hours, he identifies the receptors the virus attaches to—they are synaptic, not endocrinal; how could McCoy in his supposed brilliance have missed that? Another 5.95217 hours and he isolates the three-gap gene sequence in the viral DNA driving it to target the host’s immune system. It takes 4.99961 hours to construct a vaccine prototype, 55.4384 minutes to successfully test it on a collection of tribbles, and another 6.23598 hours to prepare the vaccine for administration to the Xarugins and the non-human crew, complete with a Trojan horse delivery system manufactured from the original strain.

The Xarugin High Minister invites him to be the guest of honor at their celebratory feast that evening. Spock ignores the missive, diving into his other projects—there are so many things to do, so many discoveries to make, and of course he can finish it all and more. He was made for it. He was _destined_ for it. The computers and lab equipment whir around him, worshippers of a benevolent god, and Spock welcomes it—it is his calling, it is his _right_ , it is…

Some time later, a gentle shake of his shoulder pulls him from a cobwebbed world of dank awareness, half-formed images, and wisps of thought. “Spock?” floats a voice, distant and distorted. Spock groans and, with great effort, lifts his head.

He is in his office—or at least, he _thinks_ it is his office: it has the same layout, the faintly metallic smell, the holograph of Jim and himself from shore leave on Risa last year sitting on the corner of his desk. Yet everything else seems out of place: he doesn’t remember having six computers, nor a Lombardi centrifuge. In fact, half the equipment in here he isn’t even qualified to operate.

“Spock.” Another brush of a hand on his shoulder, and Spock can’t help but flinch back. It _hurts_ , like his entire body is one big, sensitive, sore bruise. Curling away, he squints up at his visitor.

Jim is dressed for sleep: soft grey pants and a worn, threadbare T-shirt. His hair is mussed like he just got out from under the sonics, and worry etches faint lines into his face. “Are you okay?”

Spock stares, uncomprehending, at the mess around him. _Unclear._ “I do not recall falling asleep.”

At that Jim smiles: it is small, lopsided with concern. “Yeah, I almost went straight to bed after beaming up from Xarugin, but then I decided to ping your location and the computer told me you haven’t left this lab for the past twenty-three hours. So I figured an intervention was in order.” He pauses, and the corners of his mouth turn down slightly in disapproval. “Spock. It’s not that I’m not grateful for your work on the vaccine—we all are—but you can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this.”

His words grate, the accusation sinking into Spock like a thousand poisoned needles. Who is Jim to dictate how he acts? The captain can barely manage his own life, let alone another’s.

“Thank you for your concern,” he manages to grit out as he stands—and has the ship always been this unstable? His stomach rolls; quickly he tamps down on the urge to vomit. He will not be weak in front of Jim. “I wish to retire.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Jim reaches out and Spock ducks away from him. The slightest pressure will kill him; he will burn to smoldering ashes, he knows it. “Do not touch me.”

He sees the hurt flash across his lover’s face but cannot bring himself to care. The exhaustion is bone-deep, settled into his very soul, and he wants only to be left alone to rest. Surely even Jim can comprehend that much.

The silence as they walk back to their quarters is heavy, tense, and entirely what Spock needs for once. Jim moves to speak as soon as they’re inside, but Spock grits his teeth and veers toward the bathroom. “Good night.”

“Wait, can we just—”

“I said _good night._ ” Doors cannot slam on the _Enterprise_ , but the finality of the _hiss_ -slide is good enough.

When he emerges ten minutes later, the room is dark and finally, pleasantly _silent._ Jim forms a dark, uneven shape on one side of the bed, and does not move when Spock slides into the other. A quick glance shows him tense shoulders and breaths that are too slow and even for sleep. But Jim says nothing, and Spock is too tired to deal with him.

He lets out a breath and closes his eyes. Oblivion snatches him away like a demon abducting an infant.

 

When he claws his way to awareness the next morning, Jim is gone. His padd sits on the pillow with a memo informing Spock he has the day off, and a cup of freshly-brewed Vulcan tea steams on the nightstand. This is probably Jim’s idea of a truce, but Spock only feels a lance of annoyance. He is perfectly capable of working alpha, and Jim has never known how to steep the tea right. It is always too bitter.

He nevertheless manages to choke it down with a meager breakfast despite his stomach’s valiant attempts to regurgitate everything he consumes. Morning meditation goes terribly: thoughts, usually so ordered and malleable, scatter away from him like startled minnows. He cannot grasp his focus no matter what visualization he uses. Every little stimulus—the brush of stale air over his skin, the hum of the _Enterprise_ ’s engines, the stench of sweat, piss and Jim’s crude, stifling humanity—scrapes against nerve endings suddenly sharpened and exposed. It is as if the world itself is conspiring to destroy him bit by bit, cell by cell, catastrophe by burning catastrophe.

It is no better when he attempts to work. The words and numbers swim before his eyes, merging into an incomprehensible, nebulous mass. His fingers shake as they grasp the stylus, and the screen cuts into the sensitive pads of his fingers like broken glass. He cannot concentrate, finds he can barely string two coherent thoughts together—everything too noisy, too bright, too sensitive, too _much._

When the lunch hour finally rolls around and Jim doesn’t call, the devastation opens up inside him like a black hole. Logically Spock knows the captain must be busy, likely handling XO duties in addition to his own, but the wave of confused hurt and loneliness comes anyway. Doesn’t he realize how much Spock is suffering? Does Jim care nothing for him at all?

He sighs and heads for the replicator, swallowing against the sudden constriction of his throat. Why are his controls so ragged today? Could it be lack of rest? But he has gone long periods without sleep before, and the Cam would have—

The _Cam._

A flurry of images—metal box, white patches, his lab, freedom, _supraperfect_ —hits him in a wave of pleasure, memory, and _want._ Spock staggers under the tsunami of sensation, and for a moment he can feel it, can _taste_ it—the drug dissolving into his skin, the burning in his blood…

He stumbles to his desk, drawer snapping out with a sharp _bang!_ as he shoves aside papers and other useless things, looking for it—he _needs_ it—

The case sits heavy in his palm, a well of infinite pleasure, the key to all the universe’s secrets. A tiny portion of his brain rebels, twists away and whispers that this isn’t right, it isn’t safe, it’s not _logical_ —but it is a mere whisper, the buzzing of a fly around his ear. Spock bats it away and lets the warning fade into the background, lost in the blazing inferno of anticipation and promise and want, want, _want._

The tiny white patch sings to him like the sweetest of sirens. One more time just to feel it, to assuage the hurt. One more time, and he will stop.

The Cambrin melts into his skin, and Spock closes his eyes and sighs as pleasure courses through him like warm honey. Yes, this…this is okay. Everything is right again. He can finally _breathe._

The loneliness and fatigue both fade away—had he really been struggling so much before? It makes no sense now; it is all right that Jim isn’t here. He has a job to do, and so does Spock; he doesn’t need his lover like a crutch. Jim deserves better than that.

Sliding the Cam into his pocket, he picks up his padd and heads for the Science labs.

He works nonstop for the next eight hours. The mysteries of space unravel before him, curves and calculations succumbing to his will like obedient children. Jim doesn’t come calling after shift, which is just as well—according to the logs, the captain spent the majority of the afternoon in a conference call with Command, so he must be tired. Spock will let him rest. Jim has limitations, his cognitive and physical reserves only go so far, so Spock will pick up his slack. And the experiments he is running? Certainly the benefits the Federation will reap from the findings justify the second dose of Cam he took after dinner.

“Spock?”

He looks up from the readout of the Purdi dung beetle cross-pollination trial. “Yes, Jim.”

His lover stands just inside the entrance to the lab. He is once again wearing sleeping attire, grey sweatpants hanging loose off his hip bones, and Spock feels a flare of interest mixed with jealousy. Who else’s greedy gazes followed Jim on his way here?

The captain looks around the lab, smoothing a hand backwards through his hair. Spock imagines the soft golden strands sliding between his own fingers and basks in the arousal curling in the pit of his stomach.

“Wow,” Jim offers after a moment, when it becomes clear Spock isn’t going to say anything. “Looks like you’ve been busy today.”

The Vulcan nods and steps forward. “I have been making optimum use of my day off.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Jim smiles, but something about it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But you do realize it’s nearing 2300, right? Maybe we should go back and…oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” Spock answers, nuzzling at the soft skin below Jim’s ear. “I missed you.”

The tension in Jim’s muscles eases somewhat, but he still holds himself straight and uncertain. “Yeah. Same. Listen, Spock…”

“You smell good.” Spock punctuates the declaration by shoving his nose against Jim’s neck and taking a long, slow sniff. His senses light up with his lover’s scent, a heady mixture of surprise, relief—and yes, budding arousal—under the woodsy aroma of his soap.

“Uh. Thanks?” Jim places hands on his shoulders and rubs a few slow circles with his thumbs. Spock pushes into the contact and resists the urge to purr. “I didn’t really do anything different today, but—guh, whoa, hold _on._ ”

His voice jumps an octave as strong fingers wrap around Spock’s wrist. Spock just hums and squeezes Jim’s crotch again, kneading at the half-hard lines of his cock, drinking in his lover’s strangled squeak and letting the sound drip down his spine to feed the growing heat in his loins. “I wish to copulate.”

“Holy _shit._ Okay, Spock, sure, but—no, _stop_ —not here,” Jim hisses, pushing at Spock’s questing fingers. “Look, it’s not that I’m not into a little exhibitionism now and then but I’m— _stop it_ , Spock—I’m talking professionalism here. _You’re_ the one who pushed for that, remember?”

Spock draws back and regards him for a moment. Jim looks flushed, shirt collar rumpled, but the line of his jaw is firm. Spock licks his lips. “You do not wish to have intercourse with me?”

He is rewarded with the flush creeping down Jim’s neck as his lover shakes his head. “God, Spock, _no._ You know I’ll always want you,” he says. Then, tilting his head, he shoots Spock a coy look, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Just come on back with me to our quarters and I’ll show you how much.”

But it is too late. The fire that before burned in Spock’s loins like a dilithium reaction has quenched. The buzzing, manic energy that had been focused entirely on Jim suddenly shifts, seeking a new target. Has the Pascal-Fineman quadridimensional matrix finished self-actualizing yet?

“Thank you, Jim,” Spock says, distracted, turning to pick up his padd again. According to his calculations, he will require only two more pollination cycles to produce the targeted A2Y13 gene sequence. “Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Brief silence. Then, very carefully, Jim says, “What?”

“You have no desire for sexual relations at this time,” Spock answers, flicking through the readout. “I will respect your boundaries. Thank you for making them so clear.” For once, Jim has done something right. If only the rest of the crew were so straightforward, operating efficiency would increase by 7.9207%. Perhaps his next project will be a complete overhaul of onboard rules of conduct, starting with recommendations for disclosure and data dissemination.

“Spock.” Jim chuckles softly, and again it is more confused than humorous. “I didn’t say _no,_ I said _not here._ ” He steps forward, and a slight hint of pleading enters his voice.  Spock has to clamp down on the urge to wince. “Look, let’s just call it a night and head home, okay? I feel like…” He sighs. “I feel like you haven’t really been around the past few days.”

“Your assessment is correct. However, multiple projects require my attention at this time. I will join you once they are complete.”

“Oh, come on, Spock, it’s not like you have to finish it all today—”

“It is preferable.”

“Even over spending time together?”

“I would think that was implied in my previous statement.”

A long pause follows. It is so long, in fact, that Spock thinks Jim has left when his lover speaks up again. “Spock,” he says, and when he glances up from his notes it is to see Jim watching him with a frown. His eyes are pained. “Did I do something to make you upset? Because if I did, I’m sorry.”

Ah. Of course Jim would assume that. His lover is so vulnerable, so prone to suggestion sometimes. Setting the padd down, he crosses the room in two broad strides and presses his lips to Jim’s. The world erupts in pleasure and heat as he plunders his lover’s mouth, feeling Jim respond immediately, warm and pliant in his arms.

Spock pulls back first and caresses Jim’s fingers, holding his gaze. “I love you with all that I am,” he whispers, drinking in Jim’s shiver and soft intake of breath. “Do not ever doubt that.”

The younger man swallows. “O…Okay.”

Spock nods and steps back, bringing the Pascal-Fineman back up on his workstation. 98.6% complete. He will have to prepare parameters for the next simulation. “Good night, Captain.”

“Yeah.” He cannot see him, but Jim sounds a bit sad. “All right.”

Soft footsteps approach the door, but pause at the threshold. “Hey, Spock?”

“Mm.”

“If it really was a problem with me…” Jim sighs softly. “I mean, if I really did do something. You’d tell me, right? None of that passive-aggressive shit?”

“Of course, Jim.” If _x 3_ equals 9.772 and the β curve follows Zillo’s primary quotient, then by extrapolation _y (7, k-1) _must equal…

“Vulcans cannot lie.”

 …17 _i_ /1.63 _t_ 2.

“Right.” Another pause. Then: “Good night, Spock.” The door hisses shut.

Spock barely hears it.

 

He wakes the next morning in a body made of molten lead: everything _hurts_ , his very cells ablaze one moment and freezing cold the next. His mind screams for Jim, for Dr. McCoy, for anyone who can make the pain and the terrible, soul-numbing guilt go away, and Spock scrambles for the Cam, fingers shaking so badly he drops the box twice.

He has to work alpha this morning, he reminds himself as he presses the patch to his skin. It is the only reason he is taking it—just a little pick-me-up, as Jim says, so he can do his job. He will stop tomorrow, after a good night’s rest. He is in control.

The rest of the bridge crew keep giving him strange looks all day, but Spock ignores them. He monitors the Science station at optimum efficiency, providing stats and readings as requested while reviewing reports and departmental briefs from his staff. Just before lunch, when his energy flags and the claustrophobic, terrifying ugliness rises like a storm on the horizon of his awareness, he takes another dose of Cam in the bathroom. The crew needs him to do his job, to perform at Vulcan level and more, and he is only taking measures to meet expectations as their First Officer. The drug is merely an aide, like the coffee Jim likes to drink, and he is entirely capable of functioning without it. He merely chooses not to.

It becomes so easy as the week goes on: one dose of Cam in the morning, just to get himself going because he cannot be late, the crew needs him. Then another dose at lunch so he can share a meal with Jim without his hands shaking. And finally a third dose in the afternoon so that Jim won’t have to worry about running the ship himself, so that he can continue to please the captain with the quality of his work. On the fourth day, he decides to add an extra dose in the early evening after a disastrous dinner in the mess, surrounded by the too-loud noises of the crew, the stench of ten thousand disgusting foods, and the prickle of other people’s judgmental stares. He lasted five minutes before it all finally sent him stumbling back to his office and the warm, safe embrace of the Cam.

Still, it is only four doses a day. Hardly excessive; Jim at the height of his nicotine habit smoked much more. He will simply stop when there is only one dose left, which will be saved for chemical analysis. Then everything will go back to the way it was.

Except then the effects of the Cam begin to fade. Spock doses in the morning, and by 0900 he can barely keep his focus, grasping at incomprehensible numbers on his datascreen while the quiet conversations around him drive screws into his skull. Jim watches him with worried eyes, but doesn’t seem to know what to say. Something has been driven between them, an invisible wedge even the Cam cannot fix. It might be because Spock has not spent a single night in their quarters since Xarugin, preferring the sanctuary of his lab where he can run his experiments and dose his Cam in peace. He hasn’t kissed Jim, hasn’t held him or even really _touched_ him in days, but it is not his fault. He has so many things to do, and if Jim wants something from Spock he has only to ask.

 He does not know what he says to excuse himself from his station at 0930, but it gets him back to his office in the Science labs which is all that matters. The Cam sinks into his skin like a familiar lover’s scent, and Spock collapses into his chair, sucking in deep lungfuls of air as the drug settles into his blood. The tension in his muscles fades away, followed by the fear and cloying disorientation. But, Spock realizes with a start, he can still _feel_ it there: the darkness, the anxiety, like a terrible, monstrous beast just outside his peripheral vision. The Cam keeps it at bay, but it doesn’t go away.

He has never been more terrified.

It is why he increases his doses from one patch to two. The rest of the crew need him to ground them, and in order to do so he cannot show any fear or any hint of the chaos of his thoughts. What would they think if they knew the strange nightmare he is battling? Surely he would lose his position aboard the _Enterprise_ , and then he would be separated from _Jim_ , and that…that is just not acceptable. So he doses, because he has too much to lose if he doesn’t.

Then the pack runs out.

Spock stands there in his office, staring down at the empty tray. The blank holes mock him in their neat, useless rows: _You want us. You_ need _us._

And he does. He never meant to take all of it, but he started shaking so hard near the end of shift that Nyota noticed and offered to contact Dr. McCoy. But the doctor does not know how to keep the monster at bay. Only the Cam knows, and Spock wasn’t thinking—he just saw the two remaining patches and knew they would keep him sane at least a couple more hours.

But now, as he stares at the case, already the darkness is closing in. He can feel it hovering at the edge of his consciousness, a nightmare whisper of _I am coming, you cannot escape_. And there is no more Cam, and he doesn’t know what to _do._

It has only been an hour since his last— _final_ —dose, so why are his hands already trembling? Spock swallows and sets them on the desk, cool metal like a salve against his skin. But it provides only minimal relief. He needs _more_.

Maybe…maybe it is all right to procure another pack. Yes. After all, has his performance not been truly remarkable this past week? Have lives not been saved by his productivity and insight? Surely anyone else in position would see the logic of taking steps to continue operating at such a level. Jim, at the very least, would suffer immensely if Spock were to slack off now, and the less stress for him the better, even if it costs a little money.

Yes. Just one more case, and he will stop after that.

Several minutes later, Joker’s grimy face twists into a smirk, clear even through the tiny transmission window. “Ya for sure on that, bro? ‘Cause like, no joke, I can give ya a good deal, man, a _sweet_ deal, ya see what I’m sayin’? Like, BOGO or whatever, ya see what I’m sayin’?”

Spock swallows at the words. What is this alien need inside him? Why can’t he quiet it? “Clarify.”

“Well, shit, like, you’re my _‘Fleet_ friend now, ya know? And Joker takes care of his friends, ya see what I’m sayin’? So like, yeah, two cases, bro, whaddaya say?”

Spock’s mouth waters, and all of a sudden he can almost taste it, can almost feel the Cam between his fingers. Is it not logical to agree to a discount? It means he will have more samples to analyze, right, when he does decide to stop?

“C’mon, ya know it’s good,” Joker wheedles, flashing a dirty, gap-toothed grin. “I told ya, it’s the _best_ shit for Vulcans! C’mon, let me take care of you, man, whaddaya say?”

Yes, it…it is logical. Just this once. Just this once. “A…Affirmative.”

“Hells, yeah! Okay, man, we cool now, man. I look out for ya, bro, ya see what I’m sayin’?”

Spock highly doubts that, but refrains from saying so. If only Joker would get to the _point._ “How much for two cases?”

The price the dealer quotes sets off alarm bells in his head, but he quickly quells them. It is more than he expected to pay, yes, but certainly still within his budget. And it is just the one time. Jim would probably smile and be glad he is ‘loosening up,’ as the Earth saying goes.

“Very well.”

“Okay, bro, done and _done._ Ya just wire me the credits, yeah, and we’ll get ya all sorted out. Like seriously, man, I ain’t even cuttin’ a profit here, ya know? ‘Cause I’ma take care o’ you, sure as _shit._ ”

And now Spock is getting annoyed, because he already agreed to buy so Joker’s only job is to _deliver._ “How long will it take to ship?”

“Oh, that ain’t no problem, man, no prob- _lem_ -o, ya see what I’m sayin’? Got a contact, he does it fast like fuckin’ spacewarp or whatever. Just gotta send him somethin’ to put it in, ya know, ‘cause like, we can’t have no cops sniffin’ around, ya know?”

Yes, that makes sense. Spock glances around his office. What can he use? It will have to be small but able to pass as a gift so he can send it by official post. At the same time, though, it will also have to be something easily overlooked so no one will ask questions. So what…

And then he sees it: the hardcover copy of _The Da Vinci Code_ Jim gave him on their anniversary last year. It sits on the shelf against the back wall, a little incongruous next to all the lab equipment, and yes, it is old, but it is also sturdy. And he has already read it twice, so he can spare it for a little while…

He turns back to Joker’s face on the screen. “Your colleague will not damage the repository I choose to send?”

Joker looks affronted. “ _Shit_ , bro, of course not, that’d be _so_ shitty, man! Nah, man, we’re like, _professionals_ , ya know? Entre…pioneers, or whatever. Nah, nah, your shit’s safe with us, guarantee it, bro. Guaran _tee_ it.”

Spock takes a deep breath. Jim will understand. After all, Spock does this all for him.

“Very well. Provide a shipping address and I will send you the package tonight.”

On screen, Joker grins, gapped and yellow-toothed, and fires off a set of coordinates. Spock nods. “How…How long will it take?”

“Well, you’re still in A-Quad, right? Ain’t no problem, man, like, twenty-four hours _tops_ , man. We gotcha, bro, aight?”

Twenty-four hours. A shudder runs down Spock’s spine, the dark, terrifying _something_ at the corners of his awareness flaring up like the threat of an oncoming hurricane. One whole day without the Cam. One day inside his own raw, flayed-open skin, no protection, no defenses.

“A-Affirmative.”

Joker signs off not long after. Spock stares down at the book in his hand: the gold-colored lettering, the sharp, meticulously-cared-for binding. A memory flashes through his mind: Jim’s slow, soft smile as Spock unwrapped the plain brown paper encasing the book, the warmth of his lover’s fingers settling over his own along the smooth, aged spine. _Since you love solving puzzles and all,_ he’d murmured, followed shortly by a kiss.

Spock swallows and slides _The Da Vinci Code_ into the shipping capsule. It is precious to him—to _Jim_ —butJoker said they would be careful with it. And even if they do damage it, Spock can just buy another copy. Jim doesn’t have to know.

 

The Cam must be disintegrating in his system faster than before, because he can’t stop his hands from shaking as he passes the capsule to the yeoman manning the transporter some minutes later. Luckily she is too busy entering coordinates to notice. Spock tries not to focus on the relief that floods him when the capsule dematerializes.

Twenty-four hours. Just one day. After all he has done for the crew, for _Jim_ , they can surely grant him one free day.

It is worse by the time he enters sickbay with its cacophony of people and too-bright lights. Spock grimaces and barely refrains from throwing up his hands to shield himself. His heart stutters in his side, anxiety zinging through him like an electric current. Already this bad, and it has only been two hours…or perhaps three?...since his last dose of Cam.

That tiny part of himself he has been steadfastly ignoring unfurls and whispers that there is a word for this feeling, this experience. An ugly, terrifying word. Spock swallows and pushes it away before it can coalesce.

“Commander.”

His title bursts firework-bright in his skull. Spock cannot help his wince, squinting as Dr. McCoy approaches. If the other man noticed the reaction he doesn’t say, typing something on his padd. “Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. Help you with something?”

The anxiety ratchets up at the gruffness of McCoy’s voice—the doctor is always this way, he reminds himself, but it nevertheless feels like an interrogation. Does McCoy know? Can he see it, somehow?

His silence must extend too long because McCoy frowns and looks up, fixing Spock with his full attention for the first time. “Something wrong?” he asks, slower, as that intent physician’s scrutiny enters his eyes.

Spock cannot let him see. “I am functional,” he says quickly—perhaps too quickly, judging from the way McCoy’s eyebrows rise. “Th-Thank you for your concern.”

McCoy tilts his head. The scrutiny intensifies, and Spock fights down the panic in his throat. He cannot allow the doctor to ask any more questions, not when he is so exposed. The words spill from his mouth like loose marbles. “I wish to procure a sedative. I have been experiencing…difficulty sleeping, of late.”

McCoy’s frown deepens, and for one long, terrible moment, Spock thinks he doesn’t believe him. His lips part, and Spock quickly speaks again. “Expediency is much appreciated, Doctor.”

McCoy harrumphs at that, the usual surliness settling over his features. “Of course, Your Highness,” he grumbles, turning away to rummage through some nearby drawers. “I’m only here to cater to your every whim, after all.”

It takes Spock a moment to realize McCoy thought his previous remark to be part of their usual banter. The fact that he had not intended it to be so, that it had been a statement made out of desperation, not teasing, is…alarming.

Nevertheless, it works: a moment later McCoy turns back to offer a loaded hypospray. “Here. It’s got twice Jim’s dose. Should knock you out pretty good.”

The relief that courses through him the instant his fingers close around the slim metal cylinder is so strong that at first Spock doesn’t even register McCoy’s comment. Yet, even through the anxiety, some part of himself latches on to the mention of his lover’s name. He blinks. “You have been providing Jim sleep aids?”

“Yeah.” McCoy hip-checks the drawer closed and picks up the padd again. “For the past week or so. Kid must be more stressed than usual.” His fingers pause on the smooth glass screen; those searching eyes flick up once more. “I thought you knew.”

There is budding suspicion in those words. Spock steps back. “I do know,” he says, as firmly as he can manage. Technically not a lie: he knows, now that McCoy has told him.

The doctor narrows his eyes. His fingers have frozen on the padd, Spock the sole focus of his attention. “Spock,” he says, voice edged with concern. “Is everything—”

“Everything is fine.” Clutching the hypospray like a lifeline, Spock backs toward the sickbay doors, giving McCoy a jerky nod. “Good day, Doctor.”

If McCoy says anything after that, Spock doesn’t hear it, stumbling out of sickbay as quickly as his legs will take him.

2.5…no, 2.6 hours. That is how long it has been since his last dose when Spock finally makes it back to his lab, its quiet and safety wrapping him up like a warm blanket. The shame and the wild, cloying fear are lesser here. He tries not to think about why that is.

He barely remembers to log himself as off-duty before the start of alpha. It is hardly his fault, though—everything is so difficult, his concentration scattered like bits of shining stardust, so far beyond his grasp as to be almost incomprehensible. Nevertheless, he tries to work; it will not do to be completely unproductive, after all. Even with the clear lens of the Cam now gone, he is still capable and adept. And there are still so many experiments to finish.

Except some hours later (it is too hard to keep track), he has made no progress. Nonsensical gibberish slides blood-like down the computer screen. Calculations he knows—he _knows—_ he is capable of drift about like wispy clouds in his brain, refusing to coalesce. And the fear…the _fear…_

He can feel it in his bones, a cancer bubbling and boiling beneath his skin. It sets his heart thundering, squeezes ice-cold fingers around his throat so that it is difficult to breathe. Shadows slip and slide out the corners of his eyes, vanished when he turns toward them. He is being haunted, stalked by this unnameable terror. He needs—

_(the Cam)_

—to rest. Yes, quickly, before they rise again. The hypo skitters to the floor the first time, his fingers strangely numb and refusing to cooperate, but at last he manages, sighing as the drug enters his bloodstream. It is not Cam—nothing will ever be like Cam—but it calms him somewhat, and he only needs a bit of rest, just like anyone on this ship, really. Just a quick sleep before he begins anew.

The darkness that embraces him is not warm, or comforting.

 

He wakes with a jolt from half-formed nightmares, nameless bloody hands dragging him down into darkness and rot. Spock whimpers, curling into himself. Everything hurts: not the fiery, starburst pain of being hit or shot, but a sharp ache in what feels like the entire outer layer of his skin. The cold hardness of the lab bench beneath him feels like a slab of dry ice, the cool ventilated air a flurry of cats’ claws across his flesh.

How long has it been? He barely keeps from crying out as he scrabbles for his padd, squinting through blurry vision at the clock in the corner of the display. 0217. Somehow he slept the day away, but it feels as if he has not rested at all. Tension sings through his veins, muscles like taut lyre strings being played all at once. He feels like a weighted stone. He feels like he will fly apart in the next breath.

There are seven private messages waiting for him, all from Jim. Desperate for distraction, Spock opens them all.

 **_08:35:_ ** _Saw you’re off alpha today. Feeling OK?_

 **_11:45:_ ** _Got time for lunch?_

 **_12:17:_ ** _Bones is being an ass. Come save me._

 **_15:22:_ ** _Still pinging you in your lab. You know you gotta take bathroom breaks, right? Chamberpots are so last millennium._

 **_17:59:_ ** _Thought we could have dinner at home. Join me if you can._

 **_18:11:_ ** _Spock?_

 **_22:03:_ ** _Good night, Spock._

Spock’s breath hitches, guilt gnawing at his stomach. An entire day—he has lost an entire _day_ without Jim. How did he manage it before? Only Jim can make his world right again. Jim, and the Cam.

The craving rushes up, a myriad of images and whispers of _supraperfect_ , and for a moment Spock tastes it: the tingly feeling at the back of his throat following a dose. Then the taste is suddenly replaced by bile and he slaps a hand over his mouth, choking it down. The world spins: colors and images and too many feelings, and the only thing that can right it, the only thing that _matters_ —

A chime at the door. “ _Unannounced visitor,_ ” the computer offers.

Spock has to swallow several times before he can speak. “I…Identify.”

“Yeoman Tulle, sir,” comes the muffled voice through the duranium barrier. “I’m here with your package. You listed it as Priority One.”

_The Cam._

Another dangerous wave of nausea hits as he heaves himself off the lab bench but Spock clamps down on it, calling on all his control to force his traitorous body into order. Just a little longer. He stumbles toward the door, smoothing one hand down the front of his uniform—when had it gotten so rumpled?—and inputting the unlock code with the other. Just a little longer, and it will be okay again.

He doesn’t know why it takes three tries to open the door—the keypad refuses the shaky sequences at first, beeping at him in error and reproach. The frustration must show on his face—he is allowed a lapse, with the day he’s had—because the instant the door slides open Yeoman Tulle gasps and takes a step back.

“Commander! Are you all right?”

Her eyes go wide, an expression of pure shock. Surely his frustration does not warrant such a reaction? But that hardly matters. Where is the Cam?

The shipping capsule is clutched between her hands, forgotten. Spock snatches it from listless fingers, and already something inside himself is growing, howling. So very close…

He thanks her. He must thank her because his mother raised him to be polite, but perhaps she did not hear him because she takes a step forward, mouth opening. Nevertheless, her job is done; he has the package. Spock shuts the door in her face.

It is here. _It is here._

He nearly breaks the capsule in his haste to get it open. The want sings in his mind, magnified now by having the Cam so close, and he throws the book down on the table, sifting through its pages with trembling fingers. Where… _where?_

His fingers sense a new bump along the back cover. Spock snatches up a letter opener and shoves it into the book, reveling in the sound of ripping paper—one more barrier gone—as he cuts a slit into the cover to reveal a glint of familiar silver…

The letter opener hits the table with a clatter. Spock grabs the edges of the cover and yanks, thankful that it is made of paper and not soft-worn leather like some of Jim’s other books. He cannot imagine being hindered for one more moment as he tears at the bindings, fingers brushing cold metal underneath.

Amidst the sound of tearing paper and the smell of old glue, something deep inside Spock cries out in anguish. But it is small, inconsequential now. It is nothing next to the Cam.

 _Finally._ Spock cradles the two thin cases in his hand and, illogical as it is, some of the anxiety settles, the stirrings of the monster temporarily eased. He presses the button to open the inner panel and pleasure sparks down his spine at the sight of the twenty familiar white patches. It is all right now. Time to drive the darkness away.

As he presses the first two patches to his skin, he has never felt more content.

3.83559 minutes later, someone else chimes at his door. Spock does not glance up from the super-antimatter simulation. “Enter.”

Light, familiar footsteps. He thinks of smiling, but that would be a waste of cognitive resources. “Hello, Nyota. You are up late.”

The footsteps stop, and he glimpses the tip of a well-polished boot out the corner of his eye. “So are you.”

He had, of course, heard her approach even before she requested admittance. Indeed, the slight tingle in the back of his head 47.0002 seconds ago could very well have been an extrasensory awareness of her very intention to come visit him. Though such abilities have never been observed in Vulcans, they are not undocumented in the galaxy. Perhaps that is what he will devote himself to next. The inaugural paper will be titled—

“Spock?”

Not _Commander_ or _sir_. Nyota is here on personal business, so he must look at her for the remainder of the conversation. Humans have such odd social expectations.

He will admit he is a little surprised at the expression on her face: some strange mixture of worry, confusion, and fear. Has he issued her an unclear order recently? No; his perfect memory informs him she has taken five orders from him in the past forty-eight hours, and all of them have been impeccably communicated.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Perhaps she simply desires advice. Though infrequent, it has happened in the past, and he does know all the universe has to offer now.

Nyota bites her lip. Spock notes it in an abstract way, calculates the pressure, the number of nerve endings, the probability of her nociceptive system being triggered. “I ran into Yeoman Tulle in the hallway a while ago. She said you looked…unwell.”

He gets the sense she means something by that word, but cannot fathom what it might be. Unwell? He has never been healthier.

Then again, admittedly Tulle did not see him at his best. Perhaps he will correct the error later by summoning her to his office and showing her what the Cam has opened up for him. “Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant. As you can see, I am quite functional.”

The terminal running the simulation beeps. Spock begins calculating vectors, yet keeps his focus trained on Nyota at the same time. It is no hardship, dividing his concentration in this way. He cannot believe he struggled so with it only a few moments ago.

Just further proof how good the Cam is for him.

Nyota shifts, crossing her arms. If anything, she looks even more worried. “Spock, have you…have you looked in a mirror recently?”

He blinks. 1.668 seconds of mental review informs him: “No, I have not.” Why would he have the need? There have been so many other things, more _important_ things, to occupy his time.

Nyota nods. Oddly, she does not meet his eyes. “Maybe you should, you know…go home. You need to take care of yourself, Spock.”

And suddenly, with the clarity of the genius that has been granted to him by the Cam, Spock realizes what she is doing. It draws up a wave of pity, to see such a strong woman reduced to these abject tactics. He had thought them past this issue long ago; had not Nyota herself given him advice and support during his early, clumsy days of courting Jim? He will have to handle this as delicately as possible to avoid hurting her fragile human feelings.

He clears his throat and turns back toward the computer. Presenting his back is sure to add a deterrent. “Your attention is flattering,” he says to the screen, careful to keep his tone modulated and entirely sympathetic. “However, I am in a committed and satisfactory relationship with the captain, and thus must politely decline your advances.”

Silence. The Lombardi centrifuge hums, readying itself for the next batch of precipitate. 5.01236 seconds later, Nyota’s strangled voice asks, “What?”

Spock deduces that the exclamation requires no response, much like a cry of pain upon stubbing a toe. Indeed, a moment later Nyota’s eyes flash as her hands fly to her hips. “You think I’m trying to get back together with you?”

“Something so emotionally and logistically complicated is likely not your intention. However, humans are rather notorious for seeking short-term sexual gratification from former partners.”

Another brief, heavy silence. Then: “I don’t wanna have _sex_ with you!” Spock glances up to see her glaring at him, eyes shining with indignation. Hm. Perhaps he misjudged her. If humans would only say what they mean, instead of cloaking their every word in metaphor and hyperbole…

“And speaking of the captain!” Nyota flings one arm out, wild, like an errant cable. “Have you even bothered to _look_ at him lately, Spock? When was the last time you even went back to your quarters?”

“1.7 days ago, Lieutenant. To procure an extra uniform.” Jim had been asleep at the time, and Spock had not wanted to wake him. He wanted to ensure his lover’s uninterrupted rest. It had nothing to do with the soft, sad looks Jim has been casting him on the bridge lately.

Either way, he is not sure why this line of questioning is relevant. Surely if Jim were unsatisfied with their current level of contact, he would tell Spock as much.

Nyota doesn’t answer for a long time. Spock occupies himself with the simulation—yes, with these results he should be able to isolate a θ-boson within 16 hours using Mr. Scott’s tabletop particle accelerator—and when at last she speaks, her voice registers as a bare murmur on the edge of his world.

“Just look after yourself, Spock,” she mumbles, and Spock thinks he should inquire regarding the resignation in her voice, but he does not find human emotions a priority at the moment. “If not for you, then for Kirk.”

Then she is gone: a soft whisper of perfumed air and the hiss of the door. Spock wonders, for just an instant, what she might have meant.

Then the Cam beckons, and he goes.

 

After that, it becomes so easy. Or difficult. Sometimes Spock finds he can’t tell the difference.

The weeks press on. The Cam buzzes in his blood: an elixir that opens up everything for him, from the most complex mysteries of the universe to the last sordid secrets of each individual crewmember. In four days alone he authors and submits six manuscripts on subjects ranging from organic chemistry to superstring theory. He sends equations and theory manipulations to Mr. Scott that, if implemented, should increase warp core efficiency by 23.95%. He even digests all the literature on a mitolarva-transmitted rash in the span of 72 hours in order to help Dr. McCoy manufacture a suitable antivirus for the Andorian crewmembers infected.

The doctor does not appear grateful, instead fixing Spock with a look of irritated worry. Spock chalks it up to jealousy—it is pitiful, really, how easily humans succumb to such emotion—and moves on to the next project.

He cannot remember the last time he saw Jim off-shift. Well. Actually Spock remembers quite clearly—six days, three hours, and eighteen minutes ago, when Jim happened to enter the mess right as Spock was leaving. The captain paused in the doorway and opened his mouth as if to speak. Spock waited. 3.4117 seconds later, his lover closed his mouth, shook his head, and continued on without a word.

The open hurt in his eyes was…difficult to manage. Spock dealt with it in the usual way: an extra dose of Cam in his office, twenty minutes later.

The Cam becomes his constant companion. Spock would not call it an anchor, per se—that would imply some degree of reliance. Rather, the drug has become a supplement, the magnifying glass he points at the universe to discern all its most minute details. He cannot fathom letting it go. There is too much to contribute, too much still to discover and explore.

Cost is the only issue. After the fiasco with the first pack, Spock learned his lesson. He orders from Joker regularly, calculating carefully to make sure he never finds himself without. He sends him _The Da Vinci Code_ again, then _The Kite Runner_ , then _David Copperfield_ and several other books he takes off Jim’s shelf when his lover is either absent or asleep. It is no harm either way. Though the books seem to have become more ragged as of late, they are still passable. And certainly Jim does not need them at this moment, since he has not come looking. It is worth it, to keep the terror and depression of the dry spells at bay. Yes, Jim understands, and Joker does too, always willing to provide.

Except, over time, he starts to get less accommodating. Instead of enthusiastic greetings and groveling references as a “Starfleet pal,” Spock starts to become “Pointy Ears” and “Greendick” and other terms that do not sound like endearments. Joker also starts increasing the price. “Demand’s gone up, ya see what I’m sayin’?” he says, and Spock thinks his smile might be a sneer, except Joker is his friend and always looks out for him, doesn’t he? “S’gonna cost ya somethin’ extra. Gonna cough it up, lime boy?”

And even as Spock nods and stammers, “A-Affirmative,” that tiny part of himself hisses like a snake, whispers of judgement and shame: _You know what you are, what you have become. You are an addi—_

Spock squashes it. He pounds it down, murders it, buries it in the deepest part of his brain. And whenever it resurrects with its harsh, seething accusations, he flees to the Cam and its safe, solid embrace.

Then, two weeks—and nine packs—later, it happens. Spock swallows, mouth suddenly dry as he stares at the message window on the screen, unable to comprehend its white, impassive words: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

He should have anticipated this. He set up his finances for just this sort of scenario: limiting accessible money so as to impose a ceiling on quarterly spending, the rest of his earnings allocated to an account overseen by his father on New Vulcan. It is the way all Vulcans manage their finances: logical and without flexibility. And yet…

There are still two months left in this quarter. How did he spend it all so fast?

On screen, Joker picks something out of his teeth and flicks it away. “What’s the hold up?”

“I…” Spock shakes his head and feels anxiety claw at the back of his throat. “It appears I have exhausted my account.”

“Oh?” Joker smirks and straightens up. “So…ya bankrupt? Such a shame! What’re we gonna do, Pointy? No cash, no dope, bro.”

And the concept, the very _thought_ of not having any more Cam…the fear is almost too much to bear. Spock swallows. “Perhaps if you would grant me credit—”

Joker’s bark of laughter sounds out like a gunshot. “Yeah, this ain’t _‘Fleet_ , yo. We ain’t no nice little Federation business. Cold hard cash, bro, that’s how it’s done ‘round here.” He pauses then, before a smarmy smile tugs his cracked lips up. “But hey, I might still be able ta help ya out, bro. Just this once, seein’ as we’re pals an’ all.”

Hope sparks in Spock’s heart; he imagines the speed at which he straightens would remind an observer of a Terran dog just offered a treat, but he cannot bring himself to care. The Cam—he only needs the _Cam._ “What do you propose?”

Joker’s smile widens, all broken, yellowed teeth. “Ya know,” he says, and his voice drops, “I ain’t never seen a Vulcan dick before.”

Spock stares. Did he just…surely he cannot mean…

On screen, Joker leans back on the ratty cushions of his couch. Grimy fingers play with his belt buckle. “So?” he says, and Spock’s stomach gives a lurch when he sees the beginnings of an erection lifting Joker’s inseam. The smile doesn’t fade. “Whaddaya say? Show me that big green Vulcan cock an’ maybe I’ll give you a discount on the next pack.”

Shame and disgust writhe in the pit of his stomach as Spock turns away. No. He cannot do this—it is inconceivable that he even consider it. It is repulsive, exploitative, everything opposite of the values he holds. He should end the transmission now, cut this perverted mongrel out of his life and throw out the rest of the Cam and—

But the _Cam._ He needs it, craves it, he isn’t _right_ without it—and surely just once would be acceptable? It is not as if Joker is requesting an act of copulation; just a display, hardly an inconvenience, really, and he could just— _no._ He cannot, his pride as a Vulcan will not allow it, his honor, his loyalty to Jim—

 _Jim._ And, just like that, an answer. Yes. In this, as in all things, Jim will help him.

Spock straightens and looks at Joker. “Grant me a moment and I will transfer your money,” he says, uncaring of how his voice trembles.

Joker tilts his head; Spock allows a brief flash of righteous pleasure at the disappointment that flickers across his face. “So ya payin’ then?”

“Yes.”

Joker frowns; his gaze grows intent for a moment, as if trying to spy a lie. Spock schools his features; he has, over the past few weeks, perfected the unreadable mask.

He tries not to think about what necessitated that.

Then, at last, Joker shrugs. The lechery from before melts into his usual expression of greed. “Fine. Hurry up, lime boy.”

Spock nods and brings up a different window. That tiny, rebellious _(logical)_ part of himself protests: _He didn’t agree to this. He wouldn’t want this. You are a thie—_

“Silence,” Spock hisses.

Joker raises an eyebrow. “Whadja say ta me?”

“Nothing,” Spock answers, but cannot bring himself to elaborate further as he starts inputting code, breaching firewalls and overriding passwords. Jim will understand. Many couples share finances on both Earth and New Vulcan—they are almost invariably married, true, but what he and Jim have…it is equivalent in everything but name. Trust, yes, and loyalty: those are the things that define his relationship with Jim, and surely his lover will appreciate Spock’s circumstances. Jim loves him, so if—no, when he finds out, he will surely make this one allowance. And it will only be one; Spock will make sure of that.

Yes. Just one time. Jim will understand. Jim will still love him.

The last firewall falls to his assault—and briefly Spock wonders why Jim does not have more defenses around his personal account—and then he is in. Spock takes a deep breath, pausing over the command to initiate transfer.

Joker yawns. “Don’t got all day, bro.”

Spock nods. It will be all right.

Still, when he sends the command, he closes his eyes. For some reason, he doesn’t want to see it.

He sends another book twenty minutes later, the title nothing but a vague blur. Then, wanting a fresh uniform—it seems he has neglected to change his clothes for the last three days, an unfortunate oversight—he heads back to quarters.

Jim is there. Spock stops just inside the threshold of the room, suddenly unsure of how to act. Oddly enough, he and the captain have not been present together in their quarters for more than a week, even though Spock has occasionally dropped by during daytime hours. Indeed, with Jim’s private messages also having mysteriously dropped off, they have not had a real interaction off the bridge since…well. That answer hurts too much to consider.

He straightens his spine and clears his throat. “Captain.”

Leaning with faux casualness against the desk, Jim tilts his head. His smile seems…bitter, though Spock cannot fathom why. “Oh, it’s ‘Captain’ now?”

He is unhappy; that is plain for Spock to see. And even though he still has three experiments running in the lab, even though the Cam craving is starting to creep through his nerves, Spock steps forward. His lover will always be first, after all.

“Jim,” he says, and has the satisfaction of seeing the younger man’s shoulders relax somewhat. “Forgive me. I thought this might be ship business.”

“Really. We’re together, in our _shared_ quarters, and you think I wanna talk about ship business.” Jim’s gaze flits to different corners of the room before settling again on Spock. For the first time Spock notices there are distinct shadows under his eyes. Have Dr. McCoy’s sleeping aids not been working? Spock will dedicate himself to synthesizing a new one, once the Holt string calculations are completed.

Still, that will not solve the problem now. Perhaps the best way to alleviate Jim’s distress is to be as attentive to him as possible. Spock tilts his head in the manner he has seen humans do, to communicate interest. “What did you wish to talk about, Jim?”

Jim chuckles at that, though it is low and humorless. He lowers his gaze, and for a moment he looks so sad Spock feels as if his own heart will be yanked out of his body.

“I want to talk about a lot of things, Spock,” Jim murmurs then, blue eyes flicking back up to fix Spock with an inscrutable gaze. “There are, really, quite a few subjects we could touch on right now. But first…”

He takes a step forward. At the edge of his awareness, Spock notices that he keeps one of his hands concealed behind his back. He dismisses the thought, willing himself to stay focused on Jim and what his lover needs from him right now. “Yes?” he prompts. Will the supercomputer have balanced the Holt equation by now?

Jim comes to a stop about a foot away. They face each other for a moment like opposing mountains. His lover’s face is blank, unreadable, and Spock feels the first inkling that something might be wrong.

Then Jim speaks, slow and deliberate. “I’m only going to ask you this once, Spock,” he says, never breaking his gaze. “And I really, really need you to be honest in your answer.”

Spock doesn’t hesitate. He has nothing to hide. “Certainly.”

A brief pause. Jim takes a deep breath. Then, still speaking slowly, he asks, “Do you have anything important that you need to tell me about? Anything at all?”

 _The Cam,_ Spock immediately thinks, _that_ is important. But just as quickly he shuts the thought down. Yes, Jim has the right to know. But does he have to know right this _minute?_ It would be—inconvenient—if he were to disapprove, or to start asking questions. No, he does not _need_ to know about the Cam. Spock will tell him when he has made adequate preparations.

He will.

Lifting his chin, Spock looks back at his captain, willing every ounce of calmness and stoicism into his reply.

“No.”

Silence. They stare at each other, and Spock suddenly finds it important that he hold Jim’s gaze, that he convince his lover of the rightness of his perspective. And he _is_ right. The Cam is his and nobody else’s, and he does not have to disclose his use to anyone. Not even Jim.

Then, at last, Jim sighs. His entire body seems to deflate, shoulders slumping as something like defeat deadens his eyes. “Okay.”

And, even through the rush of victorious relief, Spock still steps forward because it _hurts_ to see Jim this way. “What is wrong?”

But his lover just shakes his head. “Nothing,” he answers, and it does not take the Cam for Spock to catch the lie. Yet what can he do? He can only help if Jim tells him.

Jim manages a small smile, lopsided and not nearly reaching his eyes. “You’d better get back to your experiments.”

Spock frowns. It does not sound like an order, but it is logical—he needs to check on the Holt equation. Jim’s behavior is odd but not entirely alarming. Perhaps he is merely fatigued from a long day on the bridge.

He nods, says, “Yes, Captain,” and turns toward the door.

Behind him, he hears Jim sigh. “Sorry, Spock,” he whispers.

And Spock doesn’t have time to turn back and ask what he is apologizing for. Something stings his neck, and everything goes black.

 

Spock wakes to pain all over his body, a pounding headache, the hard cold floor against his back, and the soft murmur of voices.

“…emical analysis was all over the place. We really can’t tell—”

“What’s your best guess?”

 _Jim._ And even though his whole body hurts, Spock latches onto his voice like a lifeline: Jim is here, so he must be safe.

The other person sighs in a familiar way: it’s McCoy. “Judging from receptor affinity and the physiological effects, it looks like the Vulcan equivalent of a speed-coke cocktail. And at the rate he was using…”

Brief silence, and then a deep, shaky breath. “ _Jesus._ ”

And it is the pain in Jim’s voice, not the oath, that makes Spock stir and groan. If Jim is hurt, he must get to him—no matter that his skin feels as if it is on fire, no matter that he feels weaker than an infant, if Jim is in trouble—

Slow approaching footsteps, and Spock cracks his eyes open to see Jim kneel down in front of him. His expression is soft with worry. “Spock?” he whispers.

“Jim,” Spock answers, except surely that hoarse croak cannot be his voice? He tries again, but it is like a strange fleshy bubble pops in his throat, creating nothing but a strangled, raspy noise.

And then, like a thunderbolt, he remembers: _the Cam._ How long has it been since his last dose? Where is—oh god, the fear—it’s rising, he needs it, _where is it—_

In front of him Jim shifts, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a familiar silver case. “Looking for this?” he murmurs.

Spock’s hand moves of its own accord. He grabs for the case, uncaring of the hoarse, desperate cry that spills from his mouth—but then something emits a sharp _click_ and his hand stops in midair, arrested by a sudden force. Spock stiffens and stares at the thick, cushioned cuff fastened around his left wrist, snug and unforgiving against his skin. It is attached to a thin cable made of tense, corded metal— _nanosteel_ , his mind supplies through the rising panic, unbreakable without a plasma cutter—which in turn leads back to a receptacle in the far wall. The wall of his quarters, _their_ quarters.

He has been chained like an animal.

The fury erupts in an inferno through his body, overwhelming for a moment even the terror. “What is this?” he demands. His voice comes out like crushed glass, yet even so both Jim and McCoy take a step back.

The doctor is the first to recover. His face turns dark and stormy, lips curling downward as he snarls, “Your wakeup call, you fuckin’ junkie.”

“ _Bones,_ ” Jim snaps, but it is too late. Spock stares. He is not…McCoy is _lying!_

Emotions crash and tumble within him—too hot, too many to name—and after a moment Jim steps forward, taking care, Spock notices, to stay out of Spock’s swinging range. He sighs, and that same defeated look from before creeps into his eyes.

“I’ve suspected for a while,” he murmurs, almost to himself, yet his eyes never stray from Spock’s. “Didn’t want it to be true, but I guess this is something you can’t just wish away. And then when I got the alert from my bank account…”

Something cracks in his expression and he turns away, taking deep breaths. McCoy growls and moves toward Spock, shoulders set like a linebacker preparing for a tackle, but Jim recovers himself and stops him with a hand on his shoulder. When he turns back to Spock, his eyes are wet. His expression, however, is strong, unconquerable: the face he wears for battle.

“We’re an assload of lightyears away from the nearest Starbase, so this is your detox, Spock,” he says, with a white-knuckled grip on the Cam case. “You’ll be supervised by me, Bones, and M’Benga. We don’t know what this shit is you’ve been taking, so maybe you’ll die—” His voice wavers, and he clears his throat. “—but we’ll try our damnedest to make sure you don’t. And…” He sighs, a note of pleading entering his voice. “You try too, okay?”

Spock stares at him. This is…this is _preposterous._ He is not an _addict_ —he does not rely on the Cam. It merely sharpens the world and keeps the awful frightening nightmares at bay. _He_ uses _it_ , not the other way around.

He opens his mouth to tell Jim all this, to communicate to him the ludicrousness of his assumptions, to correct all the ways he is wrong.

What comes out instead is a choked, desperate rasp: “Give me the Cam.”

Wait. No, that wasn’t what he meant to say. He really wanted to say: “ _Please._ ”

No, he—he is having communication difficulties, and if Jim would just _listen_ —but no, the captain is stepping back and he _cannot leave_ , he cannot abandon Spock to the nightmares, the phantom visions and the cloying terrors, _please_ —

Jim hands the case to McCoy—Spock stares at it, _so close_ , if they will just give him _one_ —and turns. He has never looked so sad.

“See you in twelve hours, Spock.”

Then he and McCoy are leaving. Spock shouts after them, pleads, yanks at the unyielding tether as he tries to crawl across the floor. They cannot leave him! Not now, not without Cam to keep the dark things away, they will consume him, they will—

The door slides shut. Darkness descends. The ghosts rise up, and Spock screams.

 

Time. So constant, so unyielding. So cruel.

Twice a day, someone enters the room. Sometimes Spock is lucid enough to tell who it is. Other times the visitor becomes just another wild ghost, another monster here to devour him in its giant, bloody maw.

Those are bad times.

They inject him with things: he feels the coolness of the hypo even through the fiery pain. Detoxifiers and nutrients, he hears someone—M’Benga?—say, and Spock snarls because he doesn’t need their poisons, he only needs the Cam, the _Cam_ —

He shouts, roars, flails out at anything that moves. Sometimes the thing he aims at ducks away with a cry. Other times his fists simply fly through, utterly powerless as it laughs and laughs and laughs.

The tether—the _hellchain_ —keeps him confined. He can reach the bed but it is so high, and his limbs, like jelly, cannot pull him up. There is also the bathroom, but he can’t coordinate: the light too fierce, the tile freezing like ice. He smells urine on himself, feels the warm wetness between his legs, soaking into the cotton of his pants. He cries, then, until he tastes nothing but salt.

The cravings crush him with a wave of desperate _want_ , and he dreams of Cam, of pressing white patches to his arms and watching them dissolve into his skin, but the euphoria never comes. He wakes to blackness and pain and sour vomit on his shirt. He howls for the one thing that can save him, so far out of his reach.

Jim comes, sometimes. Spock can’t make out his face—everything has blurred, nothing but a dusty windowpane into the world, trapped within the prison cell of isolation and pain and betrayal and _no Cam_ —but he knows he is there. Sometimes Jim smiles, desperate and brittle. Sometimes Spock screams, wild and insane.

At first there is only the anger. He howls and rages at his betrayer, hurling venomous words in Standard and Vulcan and every other language he knows. How could Jim do this? _You said you loved me!_ Yet Jim says nothing, just waits until Spock has run out of breath and is curled up panting on the floor to dart in and inject him before leaving.

Then, when the anger burns out, he pleads. Spock begs and cries, and he will play the dog, the chastised pet, if only Jim would just give him the Cam, _just one dose,_ please, _I’m dying, Jim, can’t you see?_

And still his lover is silent.

The days drag on. He does not know how many, only that he wishes there are no more left. His body has turned to lead, everything heavy and immovable. His eyes sting with dried-up tears; vomit crusts the corners of his lips. Shapes and colors swim in out and of his vision like errant fish.

He is too tired even to want.

Let him die. Please, if there is any mercy in this world, release him from this evil.

Gentle hands on his shoulders. Spock whimpers, shying from the painful touch, but then a voice: beautiful, familiar. “Spock.”

 _Jim._ His lover has come to rescue him, to free him from this torture. Yes, everything will be all right now. Jim will take him home, to the safety and comfort of the _Enterprise_ , to the rituals of his work, to the joys of the…Cam…

Something cold presses to his neck, followed by the sting of injection—and suddenly Spock remembers. His eyes spring open and he sees Jim—the betrayer, the _traitor_ , the cause of all his pain—

Anger explodes and he strikes out with all his strength. Fist meets flesh with a satisfying _crunch_ and Jim cries out and stumbles back, clutching at his ribs. Something erupts in Spock, hot and terrible and furious, something that roars and demands vengeance. _This is the one who hurt you. This is the one who must die._

He launches himself forward with an inhuman snarl. He will kill this traitor, this pathetic lump of deceitful flesh! He will—

Blue eyes widen and Jim scrambles back. “Retract!”

A whip cracks. Spock’s arm snaps back and he wails, the floor rough and merciless against his chafed-raw skin as he is dragged back across the room. His hand hits the back wall with so much force he thinks it must break and the pain makes him howl, even as he yanks at the tether, now completely shortened.

He pulls, snarls, pulls some more, but the nanosteel refuses to give. Across the room Jim pushes himself to his knees, coughing. It sounds wet, and Spock sneers in satisfaction. He has caused pain. Finally, he is not the only one hurting.

He glares at Jim even through the rising headache, watching as his lover picks himself slowly up from the floor, pressing an arm tight across his ribs. His eyes when they fix on Spock are full of despair, and Spock bares his teeth and hisses the fiery truth that bubbles up from inside him like molten magma.

“I _hate_ you.”

Something shutters in Jim’s expression, flickers and dies like an extinguished candle. Gingerly he bends down to pick up the fallen hypospray, clutching it to his chest as if for comfort. Spock hopes he gets none from it. He hopes Jim never feels any comfort or happiness ever again.

Jim coughs then; red taints his lips. He watches Spock for another moment, eyes faded and dead.

Then, without a word, he turns and hobbles out of the room.

The darkness closes in with his departure. Spock doesn’t care, not at first, too busy holding dominion over the fury and loathing in his heart. It grants him strength, a flaming sword in a world rent by blackness and betrayal.

But then…Jim doesn’t come back. No one does. The hours tick by, faceless sentries, and the hate in Spock’s heart gives way to fear. Have they left him? Is he alone?

The wall presses cold against his back. His wrist aches, the cuff cutting into his skin like glass. Spock whimpers, curling up in the dark. “Hello?” he croaks, a tiny child’s cry swallowed up by the dark.

No answer. Terror closes his throat; tears sting his eyes. He scrabbles blunt nails against the hard, unyielding floor. “Jim? _Jim?_ ”

Days pass, months, _years_. Spock moans as hot wetness tracks down his cheeks. They have left him. _Jim_ has left him, and there is nothing now. Only the darkness, and the fear, and the terrible loneliness.

“I…I’m sorry,” he whispers, at last. But it is too late.

He can scream, but no one is around to listen.

 

Something is moving.

The deep black sea Spock had been floating in undulates like a wave through molasses. Sensation creeps in: cool air on his skin, blackness behind his eyes, the familiar scent of his quarters, of home.

Voices drift to him out of the deep like wayward ghosts.

“…all purged from his system…”

“…be all right?”

“Physically, yes. But mentally…”

The sea moves again, another crash of waves that jolts Spock up one more level of awareness, and suddenly he realizes it is himself that is moving—or rather, being lifted. But why…

The sudden whisper of bedsheets against his bare skin is enough to shock. Spock jerks, cracks his eyes open—and is instantly assaulted by unbearable white light. He moans and squeezes his eyes shut again; the _hurt_ , he is blinded…

“Sir, I think he’s waking up.” The voice is distorted and unfamiliar. Where is he? Why does everything hurt so?

Brisk, quick footfalls. “Spock?”

He knows that voice. He does, it is…his mind conjures up images of blue eyes, a bright smile, easy laughter, but who…what…why can’t he think?

“Spock.” A gentle hand on his shoulder, followed by a mental tendril of warmth, the first relief he has felt in what seems an eternity. It makes things better, softer. Spock tries to open his eyes, to find the source, but the light is still harsh and he shies from it with a whine like a cowardly thing.

“Shh, it’s okay.” The hand strokes his skin, gentle and loving. Spock leans into it as much as he can, seeking more of this miraculous feeling. “It’s okay, Spock.”

More footsteps, and a new voice. “Better let him rest. He needs it, after the week he’s had.”

The hand pauses, followed by a soft sigh. “Yeah.”

Brief silence. Fingers tremble against his skin, and the warm tendril vibrates with echoes of worry and fear. Spock frowns, caught between wanting to draw away and push more into the contact. The feelings hurt to experience, yet the presence from which they emanate is so warm, so solid and loving, and Spock doesn’t want to lose that. He is just so _lonely,_ now.

The soft rustle of shifting cloth. Then: “It’s over, Jim. The detox is done. Now we just gotta put him back together.”

Spock doesn’t hear the soft murmur of the reply— _Jim’s_ reply. Because that is where the feelings come from, the origin of the warmth like a distant shining sun, the light that illuminates Spock’s cold universe. _Jim._ Jim of laughing blue eyes and tensely shouted orders and illogical jokes and slow, soft kisses. Jim, who has always been home.

The sea rises up to swallow him again, but Spock no longer fears it. He has Jim here to battle the darkness, and he will never be alone again.

 

With the neatness of a switch flipping, Spock comes awake. Outlines of the bed, the wall, the nightstand, and the shelf against the far corner resolve themselves in the dim light. A quick sniff brings him the soft aroma of a Vulcan spiced candle, a hint of moisture, and, oddly, the residue of antiseptic. Have their quarters been scrubbed recently?

He rises to a sitting position on the bed then, and immediately notices two things. One, he is completely naked beneath the sheets, cotton fibers scratchy against his bare skin. Two, the terminal at the desk is on.

Jim sits in front of the screen, soft light throwing his features into sharp relief. Spock’s first thought is that his lover looks unwell: dark bags hang beneath his eyes and several days’ worth of stubble lines his jaw. When Jim turns toward him, the smile he gives him is tiny and looks as if it will fall to pieces any moment.

“Spock. You’re awake.”

He doesn’t think he has ever heard Jim sound so tired before. Has he been pulling double shifts again? Spock opens his mouth to reproach him, but pauses when Jim rises from the desk and he gets his first good look at his lover’s eyes.

Something about them is different. Something is…missing.

The captain comes to a stop next to the bed, arms at his sides. “How are you feeling?”

The words are spoken softly, with genuine care and concern. Yet something about them is not right. Jim’s eyes, normally so bright and open, are…not.

Spock looks down at himself. He does not know why he is naked; he cannot recall a recent sexual encounter with Jim. And if he sniffs deeply, he can smell the faintest sour whiff of vomit.

He frowns. Slowly, something dark and nebulous starts to take shape in the back of his mind. “That is…unclear.”

“Well.” Jim gives a small, one-shouldered shrug. “I’ll take that, at this point.” He pauses, gaze darting all over the room for a moment before finally settling back on Spock. His voice when he speaks next can only be described as careful. “Spock. What do you remember?”

And, just like that, the nebulous something coalesces. Spock gasps at the sudden flood of memories: Lospin II, Joker, the Cam. The long nights in his lab, the rift in their relationship, the awkward looks and long silences.

The grief in Jim’s eyes, when Spock had stared at him in their quarters and lied to his face about the drug use.

Almost involuntarily his gaze drifts to the wall next to the bed. The nanosteel cable is still there, attached to the cuff that now lies opened on the floor. He smells more antiseptic, and realizes why it’s there.

That tiny voice from before, the one he tried so hard to crush and destroy, finally rears up and tells him what he is: _junkie, stoner, dopehead, freak._

Spock is an addict.

Next to him Jim shifts, expression worried. “You okay?” he asks, leaning closer.

Spock swallows, unable to answer. All of a sudden he just wants Jim close: to hold him and feel him and know that there is one person in this universe, at least, who still loves him.

He reaches out—and Jim springs back so quickly he stumbles and lands against the wall with a thump.

Silence falls. They stare at each other, Jim with wide eyes and Spock with confusion. What happened? His lover has never been afraid of him before, yet just now he had jumped back like a startled rabbit, as if he expected to be…struck…

Oh. Oh, no. Flashpoint memories: fist meeting flesh, fury, _hate._ How something died behind blue eyes. How, for an instant, he’d thought it was _right._

Dear god, what has he done?

“Jim, I…” The words taste like ash in his mouth. How can he even begin to atone for this? “I am sorry.”

The captain takes a moment to reply. He just watches Spock, and though his shoulders relax a bit the caution doesn’t leave his stance. He opens his mouth, then closes it. All of a sudden he looks just as lost as Spock feels.

He can’t take the silence anymore. “Jim?” Spock asks.

The sound of his name seems to shake Jim out of whatever internal reverie he had been lost in. His lover shakes his head. “You need to rest,” he says, not looking at Spock. “Meditate, eat, whatever else you hadn’t been doing while you were…um.” He clears his throat. “You’re confined to quarters for the next twenty-four hours, for your own safety. The terminal works, but you won’t be able to send any interspace comms. Uh. Any questions?”

So many. How long have I been here? How badly did I hurt you? Why am I not in the brig?

What will happen to us?

Spock swallows and drops his gaze to the scratchy bedsheets, thin and delicate between his fingers. “No, sir.”

Another brief, heavy silence, deafening as a thunderclap. Spock bites his lip and keeps his head down; he does not deserve to look at Jim, not after what he has done.

Then, finally, Jim takes a breath and straightens up. “Okay,” he murmurs, a tremble on the single syllable. “Um. Goodbye, Spock.”

He hurries to the door. Spock doesn’t blame him; why should Jim have to tolerate his presence any longer?

In the lonely silence following the captain’s departure, Spock draws a shaky breath and curls into himself. “Goodbye, Jim,” he whispers, and it sounds like a promise.

No one is left to hear his harsh, trembling sobs.

 

Eight hours later—8.6, to be exact—Spock sits down in front of the terminal. He’d meditated first, drawing on all his Vulcan training to organize the chaos of his mind into some semblance of order. It had been rather like trying to leash a hurricane, but his mind felt settled for the first time in weeks. It made his skin feel less tight, less like something he needed to claw off himself inch by bloody inch.

Then he’d showered—or at least tried to. One glance at the ragged figure in the bathroom mirror and Spock had leapt back, thinking for an instant he was seeing an intruder. But the man who stared back had to be him: he had the same angular nose, the same thin lips, the same upswept eyebrows and tapered ears. But his hair was unruly, long and shaggy like a dog’s matted fur, and patches of uneven stubble painted his face like a rash. His skin was sallow and sick. His eyes were wide with fear.

He looked like an animal. He looked like someone who no longer cared.

He’d cut himself twice shaving, unable to keep his hands steady. The scissors were gone—Spock realized with a sinking heart why Jim had removed them—so he’d tried to make do by combing the mess down, but it seemed he only made it worse. As of late, Spock seemed to mess up everything he touched.

A bout beneath the sonics and a hearty meal later, his mood lifted a bit. But now, as he sits before the terminal and stares at the blank startup screen, Spock can’t help but feel empty and lost.

None of it matters anymore.

A medically supervised period of enforced sobriety. _Detox._ That’s how far he fell, how far the Cam brought him. A word he always associated with failure and judgment and loss of control, and now it describes him.

 _Druggie._ He’d fallen so fast. How had he not seen it coming?

 _Fiend._ He hadn’t cared about anything. Everything was the Cam; it was all that mattered.

 _Stoner._ His friends had retreated. He’d neglected his duties, his work, his relationships with the people who mattered most. He’d pushed them all away.

 _Addict._ He had lost Jim.

Grief rises in his chest. Spock swallows against the sudden constriction of his throat. Will they ever be the same now? Is there any way to fix this?

Will Jim ever even _look_ at him again?

The sound of the door chime startles Spock so badly he bangs his knee against the desk. Choking down an Andorian oath, he smoothes a palm down over his hair, straightens up, and takes a deep breath. “Enter.”

The bulky, broad-shouldered figure who steps into the room is not Jim. Spock blinks despite himself. “Lieutenant Hendorff.”

If the security officer notices the way Spock’s shoulders go slack with disappointment, he chooses not to comment. Instead he nods and walks up to the desk. “Sir. Glad to…see you up and about.”

Spock feels heat rise to his cheeks as shame rolls through his gut. Who else knows about his failings? Has the entire crew been made aware of the pathetic, poison-addicted fool he has become?

He swallows and clasps his hands carefully together. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Were you…” He trails off, unsure of how to end the sentence. _Were you witness to my monstrosity? Were you present as I howled and cried like a crazed beast?_

_Were you there for Jim when I was not?_

Hendorff coughs; the movement jolts the synthboard box in his arms. “No, sir, I was just on standby. You know, in case the orderlies couldn’t...couldn’t handle it.” _You._

Another tiny light inside Spock flickers and dies at his words. He knows all six orderlies aboard the _Enterprise_ , hulking humanoids all over six feet tall and built like bulldozers, deployed only for the most violent and frenzied of patients. He had always admired them in a distant, abstract way: tamers corralling the wild lion with swift cracks of the whip.

And they had been mustered for him.

Hendorff shifts from one foot to the other and blows out a soft breath. “Anyway, I was part of the team tasked to clean out your lab, and I, uh…found these.” He lifts the box, setting it carefully on the desk. The flaps are unsealed but Spock cannot see into it. Old equipment? Confidential datadisks?

Hendorff steps back and straightens his shoulders, but his fingers flex, uncertain. “The captain said I should just throw ‘em out, but, well.” His gaze flicks to Spock, then quickly darts away. “I…thought you might disagree, sir.”

It is disconcerting to see the normally stoic security officer so unsettled. Frowning, Spock leans forward and carefully opens the box.

Then he wishes he hadn’t.

It is full of books. The tang of must and old leather assaults his nose, and Spock blames that for the tears welling up in his eyes as he gently lifts the topmost one off the haphazard pile. _Huckleberry Finn_ , a second edition. Spock remembers the excitement that lit up Jim’s face when he placed the winning bid, the way his fingers traced the spine with reverent awe and how soft huffs of laughter bubbled from his chest as he flipped through the thin, time-worn pages. It is one of Jim’s favorites.

And it is ruined. A lump forms in Spock’s throat as he stares at the ragged cover, the spine barely attached with the last remnants of glue and thread. Several of the pages are torn, hanging off like strips of flayed skin. He doesn’t even remember doing that. Had he been that crazed, that desperate to get at the thin metal case concealed inside?

Hands shaking, he takes more books out of the box. Each one seems more tattered than the last. _Sherlock Holmes_ has a deep, jagged gouge across the front cover. A dark liquid stain wrinkles the first fifty pages of _David Copperfield._ And the last one…it is so torn up, so utterly dismembered it takes Spock a moment to decipher the cover: _The Da Vinci Code._

Guilt squeezes the air from his lungs and turns the blood cold in his veins. He…he’d thought he took good care of them. He’d thought Jim wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. But now…this is a tragedy. This is a slaughter.

This is what it looks like to be completely out of control.

Spock swallows, remembering Hendorff’s words. Jim wanted the books thrown out. Spock cannot blame him: looking upon the destruction he has wreaked, it is all he can manage not to lose his breakfast all over the floor. And if he is having this reaction, what had it been like for Jim, to see all these beautiful things he loved so much now wrecked and broken beyond repair?

“Um.” Hendorff shifts again and makes a move toward the box. “Sir, do you want me to—”

“ _No._ ” The word comes out choked, and Spock quickly clears his throat. He lifts his gaze from the ruined books to the lieutenant, trying not to think of torn pages and shattered trust. “Thank you. I will…deal with this.”

To his credit, Hendorff nods. “Aye, sir.” He shoots off a quick salute and turns toward the door, then pauses. Something slackens in his broad shoulders as he turns slowly around to watch Spock with soft eyes. “Commander. Permission to speak freely?”

Spock almost says no. He’s not sure he can handle any more judgment, not right now. Not when he is so busy heaping reproach on himself.

Still, it is entirely Hendorff’s right to say his piece. It cannot be the least of the punishments he will endure. He takes a deep breath. “Granted.”

Hendorff nods again and straightens. His eyes take on a far-off look. “I, uh. I had a little brother once. Bright kid, like, the smartest outta all of us. He got into MIT, studying robotics or mechanics or something. I never really figured out exactly what it was.” A brief smile flickers across his face before disappearing.

“Second semester of his first year, Greg got hooked on CSX. It was hot shit back then, fresh off the press, y’know? And he just…jumped right into it. Started cutting classes, ditching his friends, ignoring our calls. By the time he got busted in a raid his second year, we hadn’t heard from him in months.”

Spock nods and tamps down firmly on the threatening prickles in his eyes. It seems to be what Hendorff needs, because the lieutenant takes a breath and plows on.

“Ma and Pa went to the DA on their knees and got him rehab ‘stead of jail time. But Greg…I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t ready to quit, or maybe he was pissed at us for getting in the way, or hell, maybe he just liked it _that much._ Whatever the reason, he was in and out of rehab and jail for the next three years. I really lost count of how many times he tried to kick it and failed.”

A brief pause; a slight tremor in the broad frame. “I was third year in the Academy when it happened. Six months clean and Greg fell off the wagon again. ‘Cept this time his system couldn’t handle the OD. He died on the way to the hospital.”

Spock stares, feeling all of a sudden entirely off balance. A tiny, sardonic smile tugs at the corner of Hendorff’s lips. “I told the captain this a year ago, to apologize for beatin’ him up in that bar. See, I’d just gotten back from Greg’s funeral two weeks before, and I really, _really_ needed to let off some steam.”

He stops again with a grimace, reaching up to scratch at his beard. “So. Uh. The reason I told you this is so you know that, well…I know what it’s like. And if you ever wanna talk to anybody…” He shrugs, though it is anything but nonchalant. “You know where to find me. Sir.”

Spock nods, but cannot trust himself to say anything in reply. What can he say, in the face of such loss? With pain in his heart he wonders whether the agony Hendorff experienced is half as bad as what Jim had to endure over the past month.

Nevertheless, he feels an overwhelming gratitude toward the man standing before him. It cannot have been comfortable to tell his story, and Spock feels as if he has been privileged to something sacred. Yet it is…nice to know that someone else on the ship has witnessed such terrible things, has seen it and maybe, just maybe, has forgiven him anyway.

It is what makes him call out as Hendorff nods and turns once again toward the door, “Wait.”

The lieutenant pauses, blinking at him. Spock takes a deep breath and flicks on the terminal, letting muscle memory guide his fingers as he inputs commands, composes the message, and sends it. Hendorff’s padd pings and the lieutenant furrows his brow at the neat row of numbers displayed on its tiny screen. “What’s this?”

“Contact information for my…” He tries—and fails—to conceal the wince. “My dealer.”

“Oh.” Hendorff coughs into his fist, straightens up, and nods. “Got it.”

Spock laces his fingers together, fixing the other man with a steady look. “I trust you will handle this matter…efficiently.”

For the first time, Hendorff’s smile reaches his eyes. It is genuine, soft, and just this side of vengeful. “With pleasure, sir.”

He departs with another quick salute. The silence of the room in his wake is…lighter, somehow.

Spock sits back and closes his eyes. He grasps at each emotion with mental fingers: sadness, guilt, shame, disgust, and sews them carefully together like squares in a quilt, something cohesive and whole that he can consider and control from every angle. He shakes out the mental blanket and settles it at the base of his mindscape, a low buzz in the background. It doesn’t make the grief go away, but it helps.

Then he conjures Joker’s comm number, that neat row of digits he has chased and salivated over for so many weeks. With slow, deliberate strokes, he annihilates it from his memory. Each number shatters into oblivion, nothing but dust and echoes until even that disappears. He slams the door shut on that part of the past.

When he opens his eyes a few moments later, he cannot remember the comm number no matter how much he strains. Good. Let it die buried and strangled like the rest of this month-long nightmare. Let him begin anew.

One down, one to go.

 _Huckleberry Finn_ droops when he picks it up, lifeless and limp. Spock swallows against the wave of sadness as he traces the gold lettering along the spine. He has destroyed it; he has murdered Jim’s love. Yet he cannot simply dispose of these rich pieces of history. He cannot stomp out the last light in Jim’s universe.

The replicator takes a moment to process his commands, unused to producing such strange substances. Nevertheless, in a few minutes Spock returns to the desk with his tools: tape, paper, rubber bands, thread, glue. He has never attempted this before, has absolutely no experience on which to draw, but for Jim, he will try.

He sews, he tapes, he carefully mends. Sometimes his fingers tremble so badly he can barely keep hold of the pages, and he has to set the book aside and take deep breaths. Sometimes his heart hurts, pain like being branded, and tears fall to the desk like dead birds.

It is so hard. The repairs themselves become easy with practice and time, but he almost cannot bear to look at the remnants of his destruction and insanity. The pages whisper as if in accusation. The covers bend as if only waiting to break.

Once, just once, he thinks of the Cam, and how it could help him complete this project faster. The craving surges up like a storm, sending tingles down all his extremities and making him thirst for it. Spock groans, dropping the roll of tape and pressing his fingers to his temples. He can taste it, can _feel_ the little white patches sinking into his skin, the siren song of the drug calling for him with all its whispers and promises. He sees experiments unfolding before him in the lab. He sees impossible mathematical equations crumbling to his will. He sees the glory and might and raw, unencumbered _power._

He sees Jim leaping back from his touch, eyes wide and scared like a child’s.

It is like a bucket of cold water to the face. Spock gasps, the pain exploding inside him like a phaser shot, the craving and want dissolving in a wave of guilt and gaping loss. He hurt his lover, his _mate_ , in the worst possible way. He struck out like a deranged animal and made Jim cry out and bleed. He tore up the fragile web of Jim’s trust with the razor blades of his selfishness and greed.

Spock looks down at the ruined book before him, now covered in the patchwork of his desperate repairs. He wants to fix it so badly. He wants to go back to before that fateful night on Lospin II and start over. He wants things to be the way they once were.

He wants Jim back.

In the silent loneliness of the room, Spock ducks his head and mourns the loss of the most important thing in his life.

 

The soft _shrrup_ of rustling paper draws him out of the dreamless dark some time later. Spock groans, peeling his cheek off the hard surface of the desk and slowly lifting his head to blink at his surroundings.

The first thing he notices is that the desk is clear: the tools are gone, along with the books. The second thing he notices is the pain in his neck from having fallen asleep at such an odd angle.

 _Shrrup._ Spock stiffens, staring at the couch where Jim sits.

The captain looks a bit healthier, at least: he is clean-shaven, his skin no longer so pale, and his fingers are steady as he turns the pages of the heavily-taped copy of _The Kite Runner._ The rest of the books lie in a careful stack at the corner of the coffee table, arranged in alphabetical order. When Jim blinks and turns to look at him, the light overhead reveals a dark smudge of what looks like engine oil across the bridge of his nose.

For one brief, terrifying moment, Spock almost runs away. His muscles tense, ready for flight because he cannot be here, he does not _deserve_ to be here in the presence of the person whom he betrayed so deeply yet loves more deeply still. He cannot take one more second of it.

Then the smallest of smiles curves Jim’s lips and he murmurs, “Hi,” and the moment passes. Spock lets out a shaky breath and chastises himself. What would running have done for him? What would Jim have thought?

Jim closes the book—gently, Spock notices, like tucking in an infant—and sets it back atop its brethren. Then he scoots over on the couch just enough to make a person-sized space. “Join me?”

Spock cannot refuse. A large part of him still goes sick with fear even as he rises from the desk, quickly filing away the sharp twinge in his neck to be examined later. He sits with exactly ten centimeters of space between them, though normally he would not have hesitated to press their bodies together from hip to shoulder.

He knows his place, now.

Jim’s smile fades a bit when he notices the distance. Nevertheless, his stance remains deliberately relaxed and comfortable as he asks, “How are you feeling?”

Spock considers it. So many answers: _Fine. Adequate. Awful. Guilty._

He settles for the most honest. “Tired.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” Jim turns away, reaching up to scratch his nose. He only ends up smearing the oil even more.

When he notices Spock looking he chuckles, low. “Bones kicked me off the bridge, so I let Scotty rope me into helping out down in Engineering.” A brief pause. “Shoulda known better.”

“Indeed.” Spock doesn’t quite know where this is going; he tries to follow Jim’s cues. There is so much they have to talk about, yet he has not the slightest inkling where to begin.

Jim, evidently, does. He nods at the books. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

Spock folds his hands in his lap. “Yes. I…I tried my best to fix them.” _To fix us._

“Mm-hm.” Jim stares at the books, a sadness in his eyes so deep it makes Spock’s heart constrict. “I can see that.” A brief pause. Then, so soft Spock barely catches it: “We’ll still have to throw some out. They’re unsalvageable.”

Spock swallows at the fresh pain that bursts inside him at the words. “Y-Yes.”

“Others, though…” Blue eyes flick up to his before dropping to the table. “We might be able to keep them.”

Spock nods, but doesn’t know what to say. He knows Jim is not talking about the books. The guilt rises again, strong and suffocating, and he squeezes his hands together hard enough to hurt as he whispers, “If you wish to terminate our association, I understand.”

To his surprise Jim starts at that, turning to stare at him. But Spock just shakes his head, letting the sadness wash over him in waves. “Jim. I realize it is not enough to say this now, but I am so sorry.”

A beat of silence. Then Jim sighs and smoothes his hands down his thighs. “Shit. I need a cigarette.”

“That is a bad habit,” Spock answers without thinking. Jim, who had half-risen, turns to fix him with an incredulous look. Spock clears his throat and looks down at the floor. Had he been capable, he would have laughed at the spectacle they make.

He orders the computer to deactivate the smoke alarm and increase ventilation as Jim fetches the small white box, a lighter, and a worn ashtray from the bottom drawer of the desk. By the time he sits back down, the slim paper cylinder is already perched between two fingers. Spock never quite understood why Jim insists on smoking old-fashioned twentieth-century style cigarettes. Far be it from him to judge, though.

Jim strikes a light with a sharp _ka-chik!_ and settles back on the couch with a sigh. He was in the midst of quitting before, his fifth attempt in as many years. Spock had been helping him, administering Dr. McCoy’s craving suppressants and distracting him in all sorts of pleasurable ways whenever his fingers twitched for a cigarette. Jim had joked that Spock was his anti-drug.

He is rather less qualified, now.

Jim smokes in silence for a few moments. Spock watches him: the slow, mechanical up-and-down movements of his hand, the rush of smoke from between his lips, the way he closes his eyes and seems, at last, to relax. There was a time when Spock’s presence was enough to produce the same effect. Now it seems he has lost even that privilege.

Finally, Jim shifts and blows out a smoky breath. He reaches forward to tap the cigarette against the ashtray. “I’m not breaking up with you, Spock,” he says, soft.

Spock blinks, because of all possible responses, this is the one he is least prepared for. “But…I neglected you. I lied to you. I _stole_ from you.”

Jim just nods. “Yes.”

“Then it is only logical—”

“Logic doesn’t matter.” For just a moment, Jim’s eyes go hard. “Not for this.”

He takes another drag from the cigarette before finally turning to look straight Spock. “You did some really stupid stuff,” he says, hard and measured, “like, _epically_ stupid. I mean, it’s _me,_ Spock—I’ve seen some real dumb shit in my life, and I can still say that what you did was…”

His voice cracks and he turns away for a moment. Spock quickly stifles an urge to reach out to him. It hurts, not only what Jim said, but to see his lover broken open like this.

Jim lets out a breath. The cigarette smolders between his fingers, forgotten. When he turns back to look at Spock, his blue eyes are determined.

“I don’t believe this is the end for us,” he says. “I won’t lie: after what you did, I…I can’t trust you right now. But damnit, this was never just a casual thing for me, Spock. I knew going in it would get shitty sometimes, and it did, but I don’t wanna just give up. I got too much riding on this, y’know? You’re _it_ for me, Spock.”

He pauses. Spock stares, because out of all the endless scenarios he imagined, this was the only one he never allowed. That Jim could still want him, after everything Spock put him through…

Jim shifts then, crooking up a tiny smile as he reaches out a tentative hand to wrap warm fingers around Spock’s own. “I love you with all that I am,” he whispers, eyes shining. “Do not ever doubt that.”

And something inside Spock just breaks. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. It is not so much even Jim’s words but the rush of warm emotions through their contact, because Spock _knows:_ Jim is telling the truth. He feels it all: the anger, yes, and the hurt and fear, yet underneath it all lies the solid crust of Jim’s belief, a foundation of undying love that sings of _yes_ and _forever._

And he knows, with the heavy weight of finality and fate, that he has reached the end. The road finishes here, and he can walk no further.

He will never have another. One day Jim will die but Spock will chase his _katra_ through the universe. He will intertwine them together so tightly not even the brightest of supernovas will separate them. He will love him until every star in the galaxy burns out, and then forever after that.

He closes his eyes and sends his gratitude and devotion through their joined hands, uncaring that Jim cannot feel it. Jim has laid bare all that he is for Spock, and it is only fair he return the favor. It is his true self. It is the part of Spock that was made for Jim, fashioned in stardust at the beginning of time.

He lifts his head then, and smiling is the easiest thing he has ever done. “I wish to kiss you now,” he says.

Jim snorts—not in derision, Spock notes, but in surprise. “Dude, you hate kissing when I smoke—”

Spock presses their lips together. Jim tastes of sour tobacco and tar but he doesn’t care, pushing past it to the familiar taste of love and home. Beneath his hands, the last of the tension ekes out of Jim’s shoulders as warm fingers twine in his hair, little tingles of pleasure after so long without.

They break apart after a few moments but Spock can’t let Jim go just yet. He holds his lover close, sharing the same air. He stares into blue eyes soft with forgiveness, and the thought comes unbidden: _Bond with me._

Jim doesn’t hear it, of course, but Spock, after the first jolt of surprise, settles into it with a solid feeling of _right._ They have weathered the greatest of storms, and come out the other side shaken yet still together. The next step is only logical.

 _Bond with me._ Spock smiles again, uncaring that Jim can see it. He won’t ask right now; he isn’t worthy. But he thinks, looking at Jim, that one day, he will be.

Jim’s body gives a sudden jolt. “Fuck, _ow._ ” They both turn to see that the cigarette has burned down to a stub, and Jim quickly discards it in the ashtray, grumbling as he brushes stray bits of ash off his fingers. “Note to self: put out the cig _before_ stupidly sappy relationship talks.”

Spock tilts his head. “Shall I add it to crew regulations, Captain?”

Jim’s startled bark of laughter is the best thing he’s ever heard. “Maybe we’ll let it slide this one time,” he says, with a sharp, bright grin. Then he rises from the couch and holds out a hand. “In the meantime…dinner?”

Spock hums, feeling warmth rise in his chest until he feels ready to burst with it. Here is where they start over. Here is where he makes his choice.

“It would be my pleasure, Jim.” He takes Jim’s hand and squeezes. Together they head for the door.

Reboot. Begin anew. This is how universes are made.

 

SOME TIME LATER

LOSPIN II

 

Spock licks at suddenly-dry lips and trembles. Sweat coats his entire body. “I…”

“Yeah?”

“I…I _need_ …”

“Hm.” A slow smirk, wicked and victorious. “I dunno. Maybe if ya ask nicely.”

Spock groans. He can fight it no longer; he was never going to win. No choice, in the end, but to give in. “ _Please._ ”

Jim smiles. The bond hums between them, solid and forever.

“If you insist,” he says, and finally begins to _move._

**Author's Note:**

> I do not have a personal history of addiction. The experiences in this story are based on hearsay and extrapolation from people I've treated in a professional capacity.
> 
>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


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